Delight.

This dress, it was my mother's. She must have been a size 7 at twenty years of age. Her tiny waist slipped comfortably into the zipper stage, where my own thighs struggle.

A rip, and a seamstress's brilliance later - a hug for a greeting. His hand enters mine. Surprise.

I say, are we? now?
He says, if you are fond? and then
I don't say. I shrug.

I adore his eye. Attention to minute detail, every subtlety well surpassed by onlookers rushed, rushing, ransacking treasure with the mind. But he is the one who stops. And looks long.

And confusion
imminent . Be spoken of!
I am withdrawing words, eating each echelon concept because, because

Belief: He will speak of it on his own accord.

I say, I am not ready yet,
that was silenced to me.
He says, our pace?
I say, is your decision.

He asks (like he is seventeen and I, sixteen and
this is 1954 and
we are yet to be acquainted with technicolour films)
if I would be his girl.

I would be his girl.