The Sundress

Jack wore a dress and he didn't shave his legs. It was 98 fuckin' degrees out and the humidity swam in his bones like minnows. So the little, yellow, cotton sundress he'd gotten at the thrift store felt mighty good. He wore it without anything underneath. It gave him access to sun and the breeze and an easy way to scratch his balls. He wasn't too shy to admit that.

Jack wasn't shy about much.

He wore it, in bare feet, to the park and the farmer's market. He carried a backpack with him that had novels in it he kept intending to read.

What he liked most about the dress was the white eyelet lace along the bottom that brushed against his calves, and also the way everyone got out of his way. They thought he was crazy or a bum.

In the evenings, it was cooler, so he put on his leather pants and his jacket and went down to the bar to meet his friend Theresa. He liked Theresa a lot. They had the same taste in women and smoked the same brand of cigarette, which was about the most you could ask for in a best friend. He'd meet her at the bar and they'd go out trolling for chicks, looking for a good time.

Sometimes they took home the same girl, but that didn't work out too well. Theresa said, “I can do without the taste of jizz in my breakfast, thank you very much,” so they got two when there were two easy, broads to be had.

Other nights they would find themselves a bottle of cheap, red wine and sit out on the jetty hurling epithets at the deities. Proving yet again that deities don't care, but do indeed make good dart boards, no tsunami rose up to swallow them.

Theresa was still a Catholic, a fallen one, but she still swore on the Mary. She also told a great story about crushing on Mary as a school girl and admitting it to a nun, getting paddled for it, and then kicked out of school. Now she sculpted huge statues for Burning Man every year. She did beautiful work.

Jack believed in the spirit of all things. He did not believe in shoes or ties or button down shirts. To make his living, he fixed boats. He loved the sea. Of all the deities, he would not curse her.

One Saturday, laying around on a half-dead futon, bored, arguing about Kafka, they ran out of things to say. That happens a lot when you're talking about Kafka. They were just staring at one another. Just staring. That's how it happened, really. That's why they kissed. They were bored.

And in love.

Theresa was rather quick to point out, “This isn't right.”

“What's not?”

“I don't want you.”

He thought about that thoroughly before he replied. “This isn't about that.”

“What is it about?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, but we're not going to have sex.”

“Well, no.” Jack smiled. “Will you marry me?”

She shoved herself up, away, rolling off the futon, to her feet.

“I'm not teasing you,” Jack assured her, not getting up. He just sat there calmly, waiting for her to come back, with a little smile on his face.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to grow old with you. Sex I can get anywhere. Love is you. There is no one else on this earth I would trust to pull the trigger for me when I get senile. No one.”

Theresa plopped herself back down on the futon, legs crossed under her, and stared at him. “People who aren't, you know, romantically in love and all that shit shouldn't get married. They ... they ... it's just not right.”

“Why are you letting someone else define for you what we are?”

“So what am I gonna do for sex then?”

“We'll get a subby little bitch. She can wash the dishes too.”

Theresa liked that idea, especially the part about not having to do the dishes. They found themselves a cute, little, bi-sexual thing who wanted to do their housework in return for having her college classes paid for. It was a nice little arrangement.

They got married on the beach at dawn. Even their friends never really understood. Jack never tired of explaining it too them, complete with big, expansive hand gestures and a huge grin. Theresa didn't think it was anyone else's business.

It endlessly amused her to watch Jack try to explain he was married, but it's okay, the wife won't care, she's a lesbian, to various women he was trying to pick up for sexual purposes. Frighteningly enough, he succeeded in his various campaigns for meaningless sex more often than he failed.

Most times as he was exiting the bar he would stop at Theresa’s table, his floozy trailing behind him, to get the house keys and introduce his latest thing. If those women had enjoyed any notion of Jack becoming something permanent for them, they were quickly dissuaded. Jack was very much in love with his wife and it was clear by the way he greeted her, spoke with her, touched her hand.

“She doesn’t care that you’re taking me home?” the nameless woman would inevitably ask.

“I told you, she’s a lesbian. She probably thinks you’re hot.”

“Why are you married to a lesbian? Does she have lots of money or something?”

Jack smiled. “She’s Theresa. There is no one more perfect for me than Theresa.”

“You have sex?”

He laughed. “That’s what I’m taking you home for. Marriage isn’t about sex.”

“Then what is it about?”

He thought about his answer, rocking back on his heels and looking up at the stars. “The moon is alone. There are no other moons. The moon would be lonely, except it has the Earth. You see?”

“Huh?”

He just smiled. “Let’s have sex at your place.”

Theresa watched them go, her friends sitting around her with disapproving glares. “He’s funny, isn’t he?”

“He’s not respecting you,” one friend told her.

“It’s sick how he parades those women in front of you,” another said.

Theresa just shook her head. She thought it was honest and a bit amusing. She would see him in the morning. He’d bring her beer and babble about his night. They would laugh and watch some television while he cooked breakfast. It was a typical event for them.

This is not to say they never had a disagreement. Like any couple they argued occasionally about things, mostly money. Jack didn’t really have any and Theresa wasn’t rich either. Making the rent was occasionally a concern, but they made do. Theresa didn’t always take good enough care of herself, in Jack’s opinion and Theresa sometimes complained that Jack smoked too much pot. But in general they were happy.

And they grew old together.