Ready to Wear

by E. Amado Williams

Mouths and eyes opened wide at the sight of the outfit that the most fascinating model of the darker persuasion was wearing. Ajabu was astonishing, a regal young woman with sharp African features, and a physique that many women try to achieve. She relished the notion that everyone in the audience salivated over and envied the design she wore, an outfit that would certainly arouse attention.

The fashion model that had strutted out onto the catwalk with a rehearsed, plastic smile prior to Ajabu, stared at Ajabu with scorn and violent thoughts. She burned for Ajabu to look at her so that she could make her anger known. She wanted to scratch out Ajabu’s eyes and pull her hair, but Ajabu simply held her head high with mock vainglory and sashayed down the stretch. The cameras that had snapped for all of the other models ceased to flash and click incessantly. The photographers knew that photographs could not capture the full beauty of what paraded before them, and so they devoted their efforts to revering the splendour on the catwalk.

The silvery Egyptian silk skirt looked more expensive than the air fare it took for Ajabu to fly from New York City to Milan, and certainly more priceless than the view of Via Gesù outside her hotel window. The slightly form-fitting skirt came down to the middle of her shapely calf muscles and had a split on the left side that reached all the way up to her lovely hips that felt puffs of air tickling them; she wore no underwear. The matching patent leather shoes with block heels that allowed all to see her beautiful toes and the smoothness of her heels elevated her five-foot-ten-inch, toned frame four additional inches. The expensive pearls hung loosely, but not too low, around her neck and looked like fine jewels on display against her flawless brown skin. Her straight hair that came down to her creamy shoulders moved as if it was flowing in a gentle breeze.

A fashion designer, smacking his lips, batting his eyes, and waving his hands like he was fanning a gnat from his personal space, turned to his boyfriend and noticed a most impeccable erection. A photographer who was well known for photographing celebrities in compromising situations fought the sudden urge to touch himself in solo sexual congress. The Parisian designer who fashioned the dress Ajabu wore, fainted when he saw how much life she added to the cloth that he had sewed, hemmed, and tagged with an extravagant price. A short magazine reporter who had a hard time trying to see past the spectators standing in front of her shouting, "Guardarla; È splendida," pushed her way forward so that she could get a clearer view of what everyone else was watching. The skirt, the shoes, the pearls, and Ajabu at her core were breathtaking. But she purposely did not wear a blouse.

The crowd at the fashion show looked on with expressions ranging from shocked to ecstatic to hungry. Hisses came forth, making the sound of distant crickets chirping. Mumbling increased in meter as envy resulted in frowns and harsh statements. Moans of delight resulted from thoughts of violent erotic adventure. Ajabu continued with her fantastic saunter in front of piercing eyes, heaving her rich bosom most fetchingly. As she spun around to give all of the spectators a full view of her apparel, and that which was not covered by any apparel, the air became filled with roars of approval in Italian: È bella. Bella. Indossa quella gonna bene. Oh, mio Dio, è splendida. They clapped; they smiled; they approved.

Had Ajabu not been a humbled woman, she would have succumbed to an ego of pompous worth. She would have overcompensated her false presentation of self-importance. She would have worn nothing more than the high heel shoes and a haughty smirk. She remembered the days, as Margaret Mayfair, she had said she wanted to be a fashion model and her peers laughed at her and told her that she was not pretty enough. She recalled the times in the girls’ washroom, hiding in a stall, when she had heard her classmates joke about her being so black that she would not show up on any pictures. Those same hecklers were now unemployed, heavy with girth, run-down, and in need of a fairy godmother who would restore them the beauty they had apparently thought God reserved strictly for them. Now as Ajabu, she was a phoenix that had risen from and above the flames of her childhood peers’ jeering. She was not only a fashion model whose face was plastered all over New York City, Los Angeles, Paris, Tokyo, and Milan, but she was the president of her own software engineering firm. Leaving the stage, she savoured the approving eyes of those who appreciated fine art; those with disapproving comments, she deemed as non-existent.

Recovering in time for the finale so he could walk out for the applause of the crowd praising his fashions, the designer wanted Ajabu to walk out on his arms. The fashion model who commanded over a million dollars a year just for smiling in front of a camera and promenading down a catwalk at fashion shows, now complete with a downcast expression, entertained thoughts of setting Ajabu on fire. She wanted to be the model that got to walk out on stage with the great designer. He had instead declared that he did not want anyone but Ajabu, and he stormed around backstage until he found her. He smiled the widest smile of his life when he came down the catwalk escorting Ajabu instead of her escorting him. She looked great, her firm breasts slowly advancing and retreating.

Backstage, after the fashion show, everyone gathered to take the pictures of Ajabu that they were too stunned and in a state of fascination to take when she walked out on stage. She was a masterpiece, a Picasso in fashion, a real flower to the eyes. Other models, both male and female, stood on the side with tragic faces and made snide remarks under their breath and behind the tears they wanted to cry. After a moment of delighting the crowd, Ajabu gave a perfunctory smile to all of the reporters, magazine photographers, perverts, and potential stalkers, and she waved just before she turned and left everyone in awe. She grabbed her purse and walked out into the sunlight, still wearing just the skirt, matching high heel shoes, and pearls. It was a splendid exit.

Ready to Wear by E. Amado Williams

© Copyright 2001. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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