Fiction

The last hour of work is tormenting. The product shots don't look as good as I want them to, there isn't enough time to shoot them again, and they are due first thing in the morning. I could try and do a few more shots before I go, but I can't do much more than watch the last forty-six minutes tick by before I rush out.

Desdemona is waiting for me when I get home from work. Her eyes glitter in her special angry way when I don't return with any packages. When her eyes were blue, they glittered even more brightly, but now that they are purple, it isn't so bad. I think I'll leave them purple, even if it is a purple of her choosing.

Tonight, she only has one thing to say to me. "Dirndl." She glares and stares and tells me over and over until I melt and agree. I am rewarded with a little smile. Smug yet addictive. She lets it be known that she wants a purple dirndl, to go with her eyes.

My day at work was difficult. Daydreaming in meetings, and doodling her when I was on the phone with clients. I am not at a place right now where I can refuse her, and she certainly realizes that.

I see she has been going through the piles of fashion magazines and catalogues I have collected to keep her entertained while I am at the office. Corners are folded down and pages ripped out. A few pages have harsh scribbles covering them, a sure sign of disapproval. A cheaply photocopied esoteric German costuming catalogue, thus far ignored, is on top of one pile. It is opened to a page of dirndls. My eyes skim long aprons, boned and laced bodices, a page full of flounces.

Grabbing the catalogue, I go into my bedroom, not quite out of Desdemona's hearing, and call the seamstress. "Do you know what a dirndl is? Think German barmaid. Think Oktoberfest. Oh, I'll send a picture. No, in purple, please. Do you have a pen? Pantone 18-3838."

I project my voice a bit. "Yes, please just charge it to my card. The one on file. Thanks. I'll send measurements tonight."

I know Desdemona is listening from the studio. Now my voice lowers a bit, "But don't start on it until next month. I don't need it just yet." Nervous laughter. "Yes, until I can pay down my card again."

I wash my hands on the way back to the studio. Desdemona doesn't cope with dirt well. When I arrive, she is reclining, self-satisfied, on her chaise lounge, just as I left her. Now, the glimmer is in my eye, and it's an expectant one.

The ritual is always the same. When I have a new outfit for Desdemona made, I am allowed to take measurements for it. They never change, and since the first time I have never forgotten a single measurement. Does she know that? I think she knows, but she kindly permits me this small treat. A little compromise.

She allows me to help her remove the ribbons in her hair. Untie her pinafore, unlace each boot. Unbutton her dress, slip off her knee socks. The dress goes over her head; the tulle slip goes down around her ankles. When we reach her camisole and short bloomers, I stop. If I try for more that that I get the glittering look. She feigns modesty, and never wears less than that with me around. I won't push her, though. If I have learned anything with her, it is when to concede.

I lift the camisole the tiniest bit. Her skin is cool and perfectly smooth. I linger over her stomach, firm and pale, tightening the fabric tape measure. "Eight inches," I remind her. Desdemona impatiently eyes a piece of paper, and I oblige her and write the measurements down, pretending I have forgotten them.

Circling Desdemona's hips. Down the length of her legs. Around her left ankle, and then around her right ankle. The length of each foot, from silken heel to delicately painted toenail. Moving up. Repeat with the wrists and hands. The measurements go on, always starting at her waist, down to her feet, and back, finishing around her neck. Each one is announced and carefully recorded for her benefit and approval.

She's granted me a kindness, and I'm exhilarated just enough to start the old fight one more time.

"Desdemona," I start, reaching for the camera, "why don't you let me take a picture? You look beautiful tonight. Very radiant."

She assesses my mood, and whether she will best make her point by pouting or glaring.

I know all her looks, but continue futilely, "Your eyes are beautiful, and they suit you so well. You picked out the perfect shade. And your hair! I love when you let it down like that. It's..."

The look I get stops me before I can choke out another compliment. I know her answer, and knowing that it is irrevocable allows me to put the camera away, to give up.

There is nothing left to do but pull down the covers in her little pink canopy bed and tuck her in. I politely blot my lips on a tissue, and she allows me my nightly kiss on her forehead.

Desdemona is still in bed when I rush in to the studio to give her a morning kiss and grab my camera bag on my way to work. I walk backwards out of the room, admiring the sun slanting in, making her eyes sparkle and her hair shine.

It isn't until I get to work that I notice that both the battery in the camera and the spare battery are dead, and there is no way to access the product shots I should have been downloading last night when I was taking her measurements. Or in the last hour at work yesterday, when I was thinking about taking her measurements. I postpone the presentation meeting half an hour, waiting for a battery to partially charge. I linger, daydreaming of her in the dirndl that cinches tightly and matches her eyes precisely. The battery charger blinks for twenty-five minutes while I imagine tightening the laces. I am shocked by the time that has passed when I slip in the battery and thumb the camera to the preview position.

Desdemona's pink knees. Desdemona's fair shoulders. Her arched back and her tousled hair. Desdemona, reclining and smiling coquettishly in a heap of crinolines, her camisole and bloomers carelessly discarded.

It's three minutes before the presentation meeting, and I don't even care that the product shots have been deleted.