Celebrating Individuality

As the diner’s door opens, a gush of cold, and damp, air stirs the candle’s flame. Its flickering light dances over Madison as she scolds Christian playfully: ‘You know that you’re, incredibly, overdressed.’ Christian scoffs: ‘I don’t care.’ Madison holds a smirk as Christian casts words of defiance: ‘I love fashion. I love looking to […]

As the diner’s door opens, a gush of cold, and damp, air stirs the candle’s flame. Its flickering light dances over Madison as she scolds Christian playfully: ‘You know that you’re, incredibly, overdressed.’ Christian scoffs: ‘I don’t care.’

Madison holds a smirk as Christian casts words of defiance: ‘I love fashion. I love looking to the pointed toe of a shoe while bending to stroke its plush suede. I love feeling the drape of silk scarves, and the crispness of starched cotton dress shirts. I love being embraced by a blazer while being gripped tenderly from slacks!’

Intently, Madison looks to him while forming a provocative statement: ‘Considering your disregard of men, anyone would think, from those words, that you’ve replaced them with fashion.’ Christian snaps: ‘Well, what if I have! I have a “passion for fashion” that is not unlike my passion for pastry: I eat until my stomach is sweetened to sickness.’ He pauses, then, leans towards her: ‘Then again, when I think of pastry, and men, both are filled with cream, so maybe there is something to your words.’

Madison laughs boldly attracting the attention of those sitting around them; then, she sinks into the shallows of her finances: ‘I wish that I had more money for clothes. I work amidst, so many beautiful things, but they are too rich for my plate.’ Christian throws his back against his seat and expels a scoffing gasp: ‘Money has nothing to do with it!’

They sit in silence until he leans in to a memory: ‘Remember last summer when I wore those cheap jeans that old vest, and those consignment shoes,’ he continues without pausing for her to remember; ‘when I first stepped away from my building, I was uncertain because I was falling from my bald head into the swags of my flaccid flesh, but with the first smile, and nod, from a passing stranger, I stiffened my back while slathering my stride with confidence. Throughout that entire day, I received smile soaked scans and nods of acknowledgement. You have just to be yourself!’

Madison turns to the window allowing her eyes to dart with the passing traffic until darting to Christian’s and fixing upon his determined gaze: ‘Yes, but it’s easy for your people. We don’t have a natural flare. I need you, the old gay, to guide me.’ Christian scowls: ‘That is such a stereotype especially since I haven’t tapped my gay vein in years!’ Madison scoffs: ‘It’s just in you: it is as natural to your people as beautiful flowers are to the budding trees.’ Christian snaps: ‘Honey, not every tree dons “beautiful flowers,” and not every “gay” man is fashionable!’

Madison retreats into the silence rising between them. Christian looks to her finger tracing the rim of her plate and spins in the memory of an encounter: ‘Last spring, I was walking past the Met when my eyes struck one of its walls: perched upon its lower ledge, with one leg draping over the other, and a cigarette tilting from the end of a wilting hand, was a mesmerizing creature. Had her attention not been controlled by her phone, I would have approached; instead, I hovered as a moth before a candle’s, brilliant, flame: She was donning a man’s business suit, and white dress shirt spliced from a broad, and completely out-of-vogue, necktie. Her hair was unrestrained; her gestures were liquid. Her image sent me soaring into the heavens as her presentation wasn’t restraining me with labels, and prices paid to impress. Even her cloddy black shoes were unidentifiable, but they were embraceable because her disregard exuded a beauty that diminished the runways’ aloof sentiment: “You can’t have me.” She offered no prejudice to fashion while denying support of its dictates, and those deigning to dictate to her.’

Madison releases a defeated expression: ‘Touché!’ Christian covers her hand with his and continues: ‘Darling, we must celebrate the seasons of fashion with understanding: It’s not how or where you acquired the pieces. It’s not the cost of the pieces or if they were pre-owned. It’s not the name stitched into their linings or the material comprising them that makes them fashionable: It is you. It’s how you feel when wearing them. It is what you project from within them.’

Madison places her hand over Christian’s and smiles. She looks into his eyes intently, and, without speaking, conveys her appreciation for their friendship. Christian looks down to the flickering flame imagining it shuddering before her natural beauty. For a moment, he pauses; then, he places his hand over hers: ‘Honey, you have to remember one thing only: when you decorate yourself, each day, fashion will provide joy when you tap your individuality!’