I Never Liked

By Jayna Fink

He smiled and poured me champagne. His coarse mustache crept upwards above his mouth. But I never liked champagne.

And so I placed the glass on the white tablecloth. And I let the glass sit between my fingers. And the champagne probably lost its elegance. But I never liked champagne.

Four men enter the room and make their way to the ten times painted worn out wooden stage. Everytime they sneak behind a patron whose voluminous and vibrant dresses, or shiny black vests and pressed white button ups adorn them, an “Excuse me!” follows it.

The four men ascend the stage, mindlessly plucking their stringed instruments, forcing soft whispers to fill the air.

Staggered staccatos and crooked crescendos soon embody a wistful waltz. And as I look over, it’s as if I can see dancers sway, twirl, leap, and kick the air under them.

And as I look over, I can’t help but wish I too could manipulate my body in the air.

Instead I’m stuck to this dark cushioned seat that can barely fit me and my dress. My baby blue, or pale blue, or whatever blue one would like to call it, dress that strangles my arms and waist.

My dress that spills over the seat and stifles my feet’s desire to copy the wistful waltz.

And sometimes I have the urge to undo everything. Undo the buttons to my dress, and slash the seams, rip the ruffles, and yank off the embellishments. Cut away the collar, break open the bodice, and hack apart the hem. And all that would be left is red splattered upon blue and white, mutilated scraps of what used to be the dress I never liked. But undoing everything would be a waste.

So instead, I watch the coarse mustached man glued to my hip full of admiration and laughter.

Instead, I hold between my sweaty fingers the champagne I never liked. Instead, my blue dress seemingly made with love, commodifies and suffocates me.

So why should I love a dress that restrains me until I bruise?

Why should I like a dress, even when it never liked me.