Sabrina turned on the CD player in her bedroom, turned it up loud. This was her favorite room. She loved how the textured orange walls looked ancient, thanks to a rag-on painting technique she used. She loved the old pine dresser. Loved the wrought iron bed with the just-right mattress. Loved the down comforter, the oversized pillows, and the buttery 300-thread-count sheets.
    Opening her lingerie drawer, she selected a favorite bra — black with blue trim — that she had first seen in a shop window in Rome. There was something about the window displays all over the city. They were provocative yet tasteful, elegant. This one, she remembered, had stopped her in her tracks. Inside, an older woman helped her find what she was looking for.
    "Your size?" she asked.
    Before Sabrina could answer — she knew sizes were different in Italy — the woman had cupped her right breast and bounced it lightly in her palm.
    Then, when she tried what the woman gave her, it fit perfectly.
    "Bellissimo!" the woman cried when she came to check on Sabrina.
    Yes, Bellissimo, Sabrina thought. She realized the woman wanted to make a sale, but there was such delight in her voice.
    "Bellissimo!" Sabrina said to herself now as she hooked the clasps behind her back. She stepped into the matching thong, turned her back to the mirror, and looked over her shoulder. Bellissimo, indeed.
    Sabrina's companion at the time was a Hollywood agent who entertained clients at the restaurant where she had been waiting tables, hoping to somehow break into films like so many other aspiring actresses. He paid for everything — panties, bras, garter belts, stockings, a waist cincher she hardly needed but loved for the way it held her tight.
    Now she zipped herself into a little black dress and turned from side to side, letting the short hem dance against her thighs. Then, impulsively, she knelt on her bed and leaned forward on her elbows. A gentle breeze came through the open window and her sheer white curtains had their turn to dance.
    If anyone came into the room right now, she promised herself she wouldn't turn around. She wouldn't move. Not that anyone would just walk into her house, even if the doors were unlocked. Not that they would just crawl in through an open window. But if they did.



About the author:
Al Riske has worked as a reporter, editor, copywriter, and ghostwriter. His short stories have appeared in the Beloit Fiction Journal, Hobart, Pindeldyboz, Switchback, and Blue Mesa Review. He is currently working on a novel, of which this story is a small part. His story collection, Precarious, is due out from Luminis Books in July.

© 2009 Word Riot