Page 129 of Love is a Game

An idea unfurls in my mind, slow at first, then with a spark of certainty.

What if, instead of fabric, the “sleeve” was arcs of pearls? Cascading over Mia’s velvety skin. Because as much as she is super sexy with curves in all the right places, her skin is flawless and well worth drawing attention to. And this will bring more than an accent…it will give weight, luminosity…something unexpected.

Oh my god.

My pulse kicks up. My fingers itch for a sketchpad.

Not fabric—pearls!

I sprint to Mom’s desk, grabbing a pen and paper, my pulse thrumming.

Swiftly, I sketch: a graceful neck, delicate décolletage, elegant arms. At the base of the throat, a necklace. It extends wide across the collarbones, where a narrow, jeweled band attaches and sweeps outward, reminiscent of an officer’s epaulette, contouring the slope of each shoulder.

I add the pearls. Anchored between the epaulette-like band and the necklace, strands cascading in fluid arcs, forming delicate U-shaped drapes…like a pattern of glistening pebbles left by a receding wave.

It’s Art Deco. It’s old century with a twist. It’s a midnight waltz at the Palais Garnier in Paris. Bold, decadent, glorious. And utterly perfect!

And with it? I sense a whisper of old world, classical. A strapless silhouette, sheath-like in its simplicity…elegant and supremely refined.

I need space to let the vision settle. Ideas always come best when I don’t force them, stay in this state, let them drift in naturally. Relax a little. Dream a little.

I finish vacuuming and decide to shower. God knows my hair needs it. But as I peel off the gauze on my arm, I realize all the cleaning effort has reopened the wound. I douse it with antiseptic, cover it again, and add a wrapping of cling wrap to protect it from the pounding water.

And when I step out, wrinkled plastic clinging to my skin, folding over itself in delicate, translucent layers—something clicks.

The bodice. A film of silk wrapped in sheer organza. Weightless. Yet sculpted. A contrast of textures that diffuse the light…that elegantly define and contour the body before seamlessly flowing into the draping, floor-length skirt.

My breath catches.

I grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and practically run for my sketchbook.

All my molding and playful layering with scraps of fabric from Mom’s wardrobe and elsewhere has paid off. Strong. Classic. Architectural. That’s what this needs to be.

The vision comes to me. As I get to work, everything falls away. All my problems verge to the deep recesses of my mind, and time evaporates as I work the sketches, adding every intricate detail. A fitted bodice with a crossover drape cinching at the hip before the bias-cut skirt cascades in soft, liquid folds.

I rework it multiple times, adding, refining, taking away.

Hours later, I collapse into bed, my mind still alight with swirling images: bolts of shimmering satin, rows of covered buttons, the sweep of a bridal train over cobblestones…the hush of a crowd. Draped pearls. Crystal earrings. Deep red lips against waves of gleaming dark hair.

The images evolve into swirling textures of raw creamy-toned silk, my grandmother’s cameo brooch that gradually morphs into a sparkling butterfly…notes of jasmine, lilting music. A dark-suited man at the altar.

In my mind’s eye, he turns.

I gasp. His eyes, filled with wonder, with love—lock onto mine.

Tuck.

I jolt upright, breathless. Dazed.

And then reality rushes back, crashing over me like a cold wave, the euphoria of the dress giving way to the crushing weight of his absence.

He’s in the city, trying to clean up my mess. My failures.

Because that’s all I ever have to offer him: problems. A tangled, never-ending maze. And every day he works on my behalf, he’s seeing more of the cracks, the flaws…

So, what’s this fantasy in my head? How can I be so delusional?

How on earth can I dream of us together when my life is crumpled in pieces?

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