Parcels on the Bed

The parcels arrived in a cluster I will not quantify. Mailer bags and sheets of tissue paper claimed the entire bed. I locked the door even though I live alone, noted the absurdity out loud to the empty flat, and spent the afternoon trying things on with the shortwave murmuring in the corner like a discreet witness.

Verdicts, delivered without mercy: several pieces were simply ridiculous on my frame, more costume than clothing. One set itched within minutes and was folded away with prejudice. A bodysuit defeated me entirely; extracting myself required several undignified minutes and a brief negotiation with gravity. I sat on the edge of the bed afterward in my ordinary black cardigan and laughed, properly, at the solemnity with which I had approached the zipper.

Then the black slip with the garter straps and the stockings. The moment I clipped the first strap into place I recognized myself. Structured. Deliberate. A little armored. Exactly the degree of seen I can bear without wanting to vanish into the nearest archive stack. Not costume. Not apology. A clean line I could stand inside. I knew at once: this will be the signature on this page, the quiet mark of the permission I wrote down two weeks ago.

I have never asked readers anything directly before. The question feels stranger than the stockings, which is saying something. Still. What do you think? I am curious, in the shy way of someone who usually prefers to overhear rather than be addressed. The tissue paper is still on the floor. The samovar is hot. I will read the answers, if any come, with the door unlocked this time.