A marriage of true minds
by Samantha Memi
I put on my hat and my coat
and my shoes. I knew something was missing but I couldn’t think what. When I
looked in the mirror I saw what it was: my underwear. How silly of me. If I
took off my coat I would be naked. That wouldn’t do at all.
I
looked in my sock drawer; no underwear. I looked in my underwear drawer; only
socks. I looked in all my drawers and could find no underwear. I knew I had
some because I’d worn it before. Underwear was essential, especially for a girl
like me going to a party where all kinds of special people were bound to be. By
special people I mean men, particularly unmarried men. In fact only unmarried
men. I wanted to get married, have a family and sit around the house all day
watching daytime TV and eating chocolates. The only way I could do that was if
my husband worked hard to keep me in hats, coats, shoes and underwear. But
where could my underwear be.
There
it was. When I looked out the window I saw it hanging on the line, drying in
the sun. I hated drying my underwear in the dryer. It always got sparky with
static. Once, when I put on a lacy bra, my nipples pinged out and surprised me.
I mean that’s the sort of thing you want to happen when you’re in the company
of a handsome young man and he pushes against you, and your thin summer dress
and your thin summer bra make it quite clear what your nipples are doing, but
it’s not the sort of thing you want to happen when you’re at home alone.
I
went out to the garden. I said, —Hello garden, what a lovely day. The garden
didn’t say anything because it’s just a garden, or if it did speak it did it in
such a low whisper I couldn’t hear. I collected all my underwear from my
washing line and brought it indoors. I would wear the white and beige matching
bra and panties and suspender belt. I didn’t have any stockings. Was it silly
to wear a suspender belt if I wasn’t going to wear stockings. I thought it
probably was, but I wasn’t sure.
I
phoned Maisie and she said, —Why aren’t you going to wear any stockings? so I
said, —I don’t have any, and she said, —I’ll bring some over. Apparently Maisie
has lots of stockings. I don’t know why, and I don’t know
why I have a suspender belt if
I don’t have any stockings.
She
brought two pairs; brown and black. I chose the brown, although
she said the black would be
sexier. I didn’t want to seem like a whore. Then she left and I said, —Thank
you, bye, and she said, —Have fun, and I waved as she drove away.
Then
I went indoors and put on Maisie’s stockings. They felt really nice and I
looked in the mirror. I definitely looked good but I still felt something was
missing. I didn’t know what. I picked up my tiny tiny handbag and went out to
the car.
As
the engine started I looked down at my legs and realised I wasn’t wearing a
dress. I switched off the engine and went back in the house. I had so many
dresses; which would I choose. I wondered briefly why I had forgotten to put on
a dress. Was it a subconscious desire to appear naked in public? I didn’t want
a subconscious like that. What if I hadn’t noticed and I’d gone to the party.
Then, when I took off my coat, everyone would have gasped and giggled and I’d’ve
said, What? what’s wrong, and a kind person would whisper, You’re not wearing a
dress, and I’d’ve had to leave the party, and even if I found my dress I’d
still be too embarrassed to go back. I was glad I’d noticed the lack of
adequate clothing.
After
some deliberation I chose something red. I think it was modelled on a Hussein
Chalayan creation, but I’d bought it from Zara, so it was cheap, or it might
have come from a discount warehouse, I couldn’t remember. I went back to the
car. Before I started the engine I made sure I had everything, hat, shoes,
coat, underwear, dress. I didn’t have gloves. I started the engine. Should I
wear gloves? Was it awfully faux pas to wear a hat but no gloves. Did it look
sluttish? I’m sure Jacqueline Kennedy would never have worn a hat without
gloves, nor would Princess Diana. I had to aspire to the best, not just accept
that I wasn’t much to look at and my prospects of finding a handsome rich young
man were negligible. I switched off the engine and went back in the house. I
began to feel sorry for the engine. It must have been thinking, What’s
happening, on off on off, when am I going to drive?
I
found the perfect gloves that matched my hat, not so exactly that I looked like
something from a magazine, but close enough to look stylish. I drove to the
party.
Obviously
I switched on the engine but I didn’t want to tell you that because I thought
you must be sick and tired of hearing about my engine but then I thought you’d
wonder how I drove my car without switching it on, I mean as I’d mentioned it
before, why not this time, so I thought I’d just say it was switched on.
When
I arrived the party was in full swing and most of the eligible bachelors had
been picked up by eligible young ladies, and some not so young but pretending
to be. As usual I would be left with the dregs. A very
nice young man came over and
asked, —Have you just arrived?
—Yes,
I said, —yes I have.
—So
have I, he said, —I was a bit delayed. It’s really rather silly. I got into the
car and started the engine and I realised I wasn’t wearing any trousers.
—Oh
no, I said. —How awful! Thank goodness you realised in time and didn’t arrive
at the party trouserless.
—Absolutely,
he said. —That would have been very embarrassing. Would you like to dance?
—I’d
love to.
We
held each other close. I think it was a two-step, but where he was correct and
took two steps, I was greedy and took three. If we hadn’t been holding each
other tight we would have come apart. As it was our bottom halves parted then
sprang back together. I suppose that’s just the way it is sometimes.
After
the dance he said, —You have a unique style of dancing.
I
told him I’d had a charismatic dance teacher, who I’d found both appealing and
repelling at the same time.
—Ah,
he said, —that explains it.
We
had champagne and the bubbles went up my nose and I sneezed and sprayed snot on
his jacket. Instead of saying, You filthy trollop, look what you’ve done, he
laughed and said, —Oh dear, I hope you’re not the same with cocaine. We went to
the bathroom and he showed me a trick where you fill an enema with champagne
and squirt it up your back passage.
—It
saves bubbles going up your nose, he said.
—It
certainly feels funny, I replied.
We danced
some more and I laughed at his jokes. The bathroom was our pied-à-terre where
we became acquainted, imbibing champagne cocktails.
We were the
last to leave the party. I was pissed at both ends and could hardly walk. I
left my car and he drove me home. I can’t remember much of what happened that
night, but in the morning my carefully selected clothes lay crumpled on the
floor.
We ate
toast and drank coffee. Outside it rained. Trouserless, he took my hand and
asked if I'd like to get married. Joyous, with my dress round my ankles, I
demurely squeaked yes.
Brian Conn describes his novel, The
Fixed Stars, as ‘…sort of experimental science fiction where people
talk funny.’ 
%2Bcropped%2B2%2Bto%2Buse%2BFINAL%2B-%2BCopy.jpg)
