Frank started very simply: a white dress and a pair of nude two-inch heels. There was nothing remarkable about the dress; it had a wide, open neck that just touched his shoulders. There was a defined waist, but not much of one, and no lace or design of any measure. It was just as much a dress as it was a nightgown, a dress just safe enough for Frank to feign buying for his “wife.” The heels were much of the same: beige, just one shade off of his skin-tone, a heel high enough to make him soar, but still low enough to be modest.
It started this way, just two pieces of adornment. He had no makeup, no wigs, no earrings or necklaces. He put on the dress like he would a sweater, bunched up in two hands and over the head. When it landed on him and he pulled his body into the right position, he stood for a while. He was staring at himself in his floor-length mirror propped on the backside of his bedroom door. He stared at himself and took all of it in. Then he sat at his desk and crossed and uncrossed his legs until his thighs burned.
At 47, Frank lived alone in an apartment just as unremarkable as the dress. There was a couch, a television, a coffee table, an oven, a fridge, a bed, and a closet. He was bald with no trace of hair left on his head. He pictured himself now as he was; only sort-of tall, not very defined, one hip popping out when he stood. He wore jeans and a button-up every day to work and he never once felt as at home as he did in this dress. He stood up and walked into the living room, shoulders high.
He passed the open drapes and in that moment remembered how he had forgotten to close them. Frank fell to his knees in this moment, pulling the dress forward and kicking his feet backward until he was bare on the carpet, somehow less naked than before.
This process repeated for weeks. Frank would come home from work and walk to his bedroom. He would strip down, shower, and only then would he let the dress rest on his shoulders. He had earrings by then, snagged from a two-for-ten display in the mall. They were bright purple flower petals surrounding a deep orange center. Frank contemplated the name of the flower every time he would clip them to his ears. The window would be covered but Frank would feel fear every time he walked past it. He was getting better at walking in the shoes.
Two months later, Frank found himself in a boutique. The cashier was a man also, tall, black, blonde hair and old hazel eyes. His name tag read “Marcus.” He saw Frank when he entered and his eyes hadn’t left him since. Frank was the only one in the store and the attention made his stomach turn. When Frank ducked behind a rack, Marcus disappeared. When he was looking at a baby blue dress, one with beading on the breasts and lace at the bottom, he heard him clear his throat. On the other side of the rack, holding a bundle in his arms, the cashier smiled.
“Want me to lock the store? We’ve got a lot to try on.”
