The black sheer dress
Even her hair was voluptuous.
She walked ahead of the rest, behind his parents; with flowers in her hair, she held on to her black sheer dress, to the sheer covering her face, as her pace had taken the rhythm of the carriage. The whole village had come to pay their last respects, but all eyes were on her now as she looked straight ahead with a hard face and no tears. She was a glorious vision amid a crowd that sobbed and became hysterical.
The villagers had become accustomed to their rhythmical summer days. Everyone could depend on finding him in his workshop by six in the morning with a pencil behind his ear and a boyish smile. She would always be there by one, walking straight from the beach in the unbearable heat of the afternoon when everyone else would be going indoors for a siesta.
The afternoons were for intense glances and knowing smiles. She would eat cannoli in her short shorts, resting on an unfinished table, while listening to him go on and on about how best to carve wood. She would bite her lips and smile when someone would come in to praise his work, and she would nod in agreement while he would always downplay compliments given to him.
They would part at six to go home and take a bath, meeting an hour later near the swings. She would always wear a short dress, her hair wet which would dry with the heat of the summer night. They would stroll around until they would find the right bench where they can eat their gelato and kiss. When the heat was unbearable, they would go to the beach and wet their feet in the sea while spotting stars.
He died on an unnaturally hot autumn day. She stayed near the casket until it was lowered down. When the first bits of earth were thrown she walked away, clinging to her black sheer dress. Nobody dared speak to her, making way for her to pass. She kept on walking as straight as she had when she was behind the carriage, until she arrived at the beach. Removing her heels, she leaned on the rocks where nobody could see her and it was there that she shed the first, of the immeasurable number of tears she would shed because of heartbreak throughout the rest of her very long life.
Story credits: Vogue Netherlands.