I didn’t have much time to write last week, so I’m making up for it with this short post. I wouldn’t want new visitors to feel like they’re just on yet another food blog!
Enjoy!
The Black Dress
Today is flea market day in the town where I grew up. I came home to spend the day with my parents for the occasion. I was strolling from stall to stall with my mother when she stopped to chat with one of her friends, whom I don’t particularly like. So I continued looking at the knick-knacks on display, and there, amidst the relics of a not-so-distant past—a Barbie doll with irredeemable hair, stacks of CD-ROMs, and a pair of Buffalo platform shoes—was a pretty dress from the 1940s that caught my eye.
I showed it to my mother, wondering if it would suit me, and her friend suggested I come to her house, the one just across the street, to try it on. I pushed open the door, particularly pleased with my vintage find, and climbed a flight of stairs to avoid bumping into anyone while I was trying things on. No sooner had I reached the top of the stairs than something made my good mood waver. I can’t explain why, but I feel really uncomfortable.
So I decide to quickly throw on the dress and get out of here, but I feel worse and worse. It’s like a weight is pressing down on my shoulders, until it quickly becomes painful. A heady perfume fills the room, making me nauseous. I have the strange feeling of being watched. A persistent stare, you know, like someone who has it in for you and is glaring at you—that feeling, exactly.
My first instinct is obviously to run away, but with only a half-dressed dress on, escape is impossible. I think it’s a good idea to say out loud while I’m getting dressed:
“I’m sorry, I… I… I’ll be out in a minute.”
This immediately caused the door of the room I was in to slam shut. I rushed down the stairs so fast I don’t remember touching the steps and came out pale and trembling.
Later, I asked my mother about the house. I knew that she and my sister had lived there for a few weeks while my parents were doing renovations. I then learned that her friend had inherited it from her grandmother and that sometimes, without knowing where it came from, she too had smelled that heady perfume.
I assure you that whenever I go back to see my parents, I always cross the street when I pass that house.
A little anecdote: This story is based on something that really happened to me. I don’t have a mother or a sister, but some friends had dragged me along to a flea market as a vendor, and while browsing, I stumbled upon this famous dress. I fell in love with it, and the seller, who also happened to be a neighbor, invited me into her home to try it on.
It was probably my imagination, but I smelled a scent like a perfume from another era, and I could have sworn I was being spied on. I embellished the rest a bit, but here’s the result.
I promise, I’ll be back soon with something a bit more substantial.
Hugs and kisses, see you soon!
Orchid's Whims 
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