Don't Make This Weird

Gizelle stood in her studio, arms tight at her sides, measuring tape in hand. She’d already drafted the last look in the portfolio for her slot at the design academy, then lost the model. The gown was cut to show a heavy chest. Only one woman in her life fit. Her stepmother. Sarah didn’t hesitate. She walked in, silk robe slipping from her shoulders before Gizelle could speak. Beneath, nothing. Pale, round breasts, high waist, hips set wide. She smiled too bright for comfort. "So this dress needed a little extra space here," Gizelle said, voice calm, tape out already measuring Sarah’s bust, waist, full rise of her hips. She moved like she’d done it a thousand times. Clean. Professional. Sarah sighed and shivered when the cool vinyl pressed her skin. She pressed back into the circle of Gizelle’s arms, soft flesh yielding against her daughter’s forearms. Gizelle leaned away, jaw set. "Mom, the pleats land here," Gizelle said, tapping between two numbers on the tape. Her knuckles grazed a stiff nipple anyway. Sarah just giggled, breath catching the collar of Gizelle’s blouse. "You smell like gardenias," Sarah breathed. "Like when you used to crawl onto my lap after a bath." Gizelle swallowed. She pinched two corners of silk, tested the drape against Sarah’s ribs. Too small. She let the fabric go, and Sarah swayed forward with it, pinning herself even closer. "God, Mom, let me cut the notch. I need to mark another inch." Sarah lifted both arms, stretching the under-curve of each breast forward. Another inch lost. Gizelle sighed against that warm pillow and let the frustration chew her words before they landed. "Please. Stand still." Instead, Sarah tilted, brushing her stomach across Gizelle’s forearm. Her thigh nudged forward, heat pressing against cloth again. Gizelle gripped the tape harder. Every heavy sigh from Sarah fogged the moment, lengthening it, thickening it with something neither had said aloud. Gizelle stepped around, slid the tape across Sarah’s wide rear. The straight lines she’d intended curled into her own palm, dark ink spilling out of order. Numbers jumbled against heated skin. Still Sarah chattered, and every story pulled her closer, smell of warm honey and lilacs sticking to the silk when Gizelle finally snatched it away.