Free More Than A Maybe by Clarissa Monte Page B

dignified-looking thing in the room.
    I pull the box into my bedroom and flop it down on my bed. I find a pair of scissors, slit the packing tape, and hold my breath as I gently ease it open.
    Inside is a dark mass of neatly-folded purple tissue, expertly tied with a thick cord of soft braided rope. There’s a small tag hanging from the center knot:
    K E I J I   Y O S H I D A
Fashion Concepts
Tokyo — Paris — Milan — New York
    . . . and below that, in the crisp, whippy stroke of a fountain pen:
    For Veronica
    A Beautiful Thing
    From Xavier
    I pause for a few long seconds, allowing myself to dance into the moment.
    A beautiful thing.
    I let my fingers trace their way along the surface of the expensive wrapping paper. I’ve received presents before — but never anything like this. It’s been prepared with such obvious care that I almost don’t want to disturb it.
    Curiosity quickly gets the better of me, though. I untie the knot, unfold the paper.
    Inside is the most remarkable dress I’ve ever seen. The material, though dark as the box and the tissue it came in, seems to actually shimmer in the light of my bedroom. It’s a dark, semi-iridescent purplish-black that reminds me of Xavier’s handkerchief. I hold my breath as I lean forward to pick it up. The lavish material is an exquisite kiss against my fingertips. The dress is so light it is almost weightless — a decadent thing from some unimaginable dream.
    I hold it to my chest and look at myself in the mirror. It’s sleek and sultry — completely unlike anything I own. Something to wear on the deck of a yacht at sunset, at a private table of a three-star restaurant . . .
    I so need to try it on. Now.
    My sweatshirt and jeans are off in an instant. I’m suddenly worried that it won’t fit, that it’ll sag at my A-cups, and I say a soft little prayer that one thing will go right for me this afternoon.
    Please. I need this.
    With the greatest of care I pull the dress over my shoulders.
    It fits!
    It fits, and to absolute perfection. The sensation of the fabric is very nearly erotic, and I’m suddenly glad about my recent close shave. The dress is silk, I suppose, but I’ve never felt silk like this — its caress is softer than a whisper. It reaches down to mid-thigh . . . provocative, but certainly appropriate for an evening of clinking champagne flutes together.
    Except . . . something’s missing, and my reflection tells me what it is: shoes.
    I’m pushing my luck, but I decide that another look in the box is in order. Sure enough, there they are: a glossy pair of hand-stitched heels in a deep shade of violet leather. They compliment the dress wonderfully, and fit just as well. It’s as if they’ve been crafted just for me.
    Which seems, on reflection, strange. They couldn’t have been made just for me . . . and certainly not so soon. Could they?
    I look at myself in the mirror again, and for a moment I’m reminded of a custom black dress I saw in a book, one made for Greta Garbo. She’d said it was the most expensive dress she’d ever purchased. Perhaps money could do anything, though — get things done, just as soon as you wanted them.
    Still, what kind of man can look at a girl and immediately know her dress AND shoe size? I find myself wondering how a person can function at that level of precision; it seems almost frightening.
    Almost. As I turn to look at myself from every angle, however, I feel another thrill crowd out any other emotions. I find myself feeling a little like royalty . . . or a debutante, on her way to her very first ball.
    That thought makes me just a little bit sad, though. I’m all dressed up with no place to go. I let out a heavy sigh. Okay — playtime is over. I make up my mind to take off the dress, crawl under my duvet, and sleep until it’s time to go to to work.
    But then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a white edge of paper peeking out from the dark crevasse of the tissue wrapping. I’ve clearly missed