Doll Parts

I walk into the room without knocking, but he doesn't look surprised. That's part of our routine; his lack of response, that sweet passivity I've come to crave. And my need, balanced precariously against his tacit acceptance of it.

I stop and just stare at him. He's a work of art, this boy - sitting statue-still on the side of the bed, legs primly together, back straight, eyes staring straight forward. He's dressed simply today, in a plain black top and a lovely green pleated skirt with a satiny texture. Black sheer hose - stay-up stockings, I suspect although the tops are hidden by the fall of his skirt - leading down long legs to black high heels. His face is smooth, blank, empty. A perfect living doll.

I'm in red, myself, a rich flamboyant shade that I particularly love, a hue slightly too bright to pass for crimson. Harlot red, I call it. A slip of a dress that clings to my body and moves with me. There's nothing underneath it to come between my skin and the material. High strappy sandals complete the outfit, over bare feet with red-painted toenails.

I walk slowly over to him and stand directly in front of him. He continues to stare straight ahead, and nothing in his eyes registers that he even sees me. I slide the straps of the dress slowly off my shoulders and it slithers down my body, falling in a small heap at my feet. He blinks at the sudden sight of my naked body, and then returns to stillness.

I bend down and remove my shoes. It's a bit tricky to do it gracefully but I keep my movements slow and manage to undo the little straps with a minimum of fuss, and step out of them. I'm now three inches shorter, and the lack of height makes me feel vulnerable and self-conscious in a way that my nakedness didn't. It's a relief to kneel down in front of him and be out of the line of those staring eyes.

On my knees I recover my composure as I examine his feet. They're beautiful in the high heels, the graceful arch of them, the strong tendons stretched to hold the perfect shape.