cotton

A COTTON DRESS, red with golden flower patterns, like the kinds they sell in the spice markets and bazaars of Hyderabad. She was wearing this dress when she called in for an interview, but I was on a bus traveling between the interior and the seacoast. We were somewhere near Soomaa when the call came. I had forgotten about the interview. I didn’t know what time of day it was. In July, it was so light that any time of day felt like any time.

“I can’t talk now,” I told her. “Let’s try,” she said. “I’m on a bus now; it’s not a good time.” “Yes, it is,” she said. “Let’s give it a try.” When I picked up, I saw her sitting there, Indian style, wearing that red Hyderabad dress. The dress was loose and open at the top. The woman had straw-yellow hair, blue eyes, and freckles all over. She had a childish, playful quality; a toothy smile.

Her teeth were a little crooked. I liked that.

“Do you really want to talk about the directive?” I said. “No,” she responded. She reached to her shoulders. “I just want to do this.” Slowly the red cotton dress was lowered, descending like the clouds at dusk. From within them emerged softness, smoothness. “Do you like what you see?” she asked. “Yes,” I whispered. My cheeks were red hot. “I do.” “Good,” she said. “Good.”

When we reached Pärnu, I walked off toward Malmö Street. I thought I knew the woman from somewhere. Then I remembered a Croatian girl we had gone to school with so long ago. Or was she Serbian? And what was her name? She had worn white pants to school in sixth grade on the day she got her period. This turned into a bit of elementary school lore, but later when I had confided the story in a friend, she just had remarked, “Lovely. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” This inverted everything about that day. Was it her? Did she work at the Commission? It was warm and there were people already out, drinking coffees in the morning. But I was still stuck in the fibers of that red cotton dress.