Regmore Rigmin
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The Hem That Won't Stay Down TG
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 20:00:02 +0000 UTCEli had a talent for cruel little jokes, the kind that landed like coins flicked from a distance—small, thoughtless, and designed to sting only when you realized they were meant for you. On a bright Saturday afternoon, he threw one at a stranger.
He was waiting for coffee, scrolling headlines, when a woman in a short, spring-flowered skirt stepped to the counter. The skirt swung above her knees when she walked, and Eli, who believed the world was improved by his commentary, smirked.
“Couldn’t find the rest of it?” he said toward his friend—but he pitched the line to carry.
The woman turned. Her eyes were not outraged; they were ancient, river-stone calm. She wore a pendant of dull silver, a circle with a split line down the center like a seed just opening. “Cloth has a memory,” she said, voice soft as paper. “So do words.”
Eli rolled his eyes. His friend murmured an apology. The woman’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. She reached past him for a napkin and brushed the back of his hand with two fingers. Her touch was cool. He had the sensation of chalk scraped thin.
The rest of the day felt ordinary enough. He played pickup basketball. He burned a frozen pizza. He slept, which is to say he slid downward into a dream where the floor dropped out and he kept falling, skirts fluttering around him like startled birds.
He woke with hair on his cheeks.
Not stubble—hair: pale gold, soft, and long enough that when he turned his head, it drifted across his pillow like water. He blinked at a ceiling that seemed higher because his body was different. His chest ached with a new weight. His stomach felt taut in a way that made breathing feel like pulling new laces tight. His hands—small, narrow—splayed on his sheets and looked like someone else’s. He tried to speak his own name and heard a voice that did not belong to him rise in panic.
He ran to the bathroom and met a stranger.
She stared back: a twenty-one-year-old with sunlight hair and wide eyes that looked permanently, unhelpfully, earnest. Her mouth was glossy though she hadn’t put anything on it. She touched her face and it obeyed. She touched her collarbone and felt the delicate machinery of a new body click under her fingers. The pendant she did not own hung at her throat: dull silver, split down the center like a seed.
He—she—whispered, “No.”
The word had no effect on the mirror.
Eli thought of hospitals, police, explanations that would sound like lies even if they were the whole truth. He thought of the woman’s quiet sentence: Cloth has a memory. So do words.
He was still wearing yesterday’s boxers, which slid off his new hips and puddled on the tile like a shed snake. He needed clothes. The closet had rearranged itself without permission. Jeans had become skirts and dresses, shirts had softened into blouses, and there was a tower of folded cotton underwear in colors he would never have chosen. When he reached for a sensible, knee-length skirt, his hand veered, as if a magnet tugged it, to something lighter: a floral thing, soft as a sigh, with a hem that promised nothing.
“Not that,” he muttered, fighting to put it back.
His fingers yanked it off the hanger. His legs stepped in. The fabric slid up and settled on his hips of its own accord, weightless and treacherous. He grabbed a longer option, fought his body like a badly trained dog, lost. A white crop top followed, his arms lifting on a cue he hadn’t given. When he pulled at the hem to lengthen it, the cotton only rolled flirtatiously, higher.
He told himself this was a stress reaction. He told himself a thousand foolish things as he left the apartment.
Outside, everything was brighter. Color had teeth. The breeze did not meet him honestly; it negotiated with the skirt and the skirt betrayed him, lifting in tiny breaths. He walked hunched, palms smoothing the fabric down, but the moment he passed a construction site where four men leaned in a row like punctuation, the curse unveiled its mechanism.
The skirt rose.
Not all the way, not a crass show—just enough to flash the pale suggestion of lace and ruin him with panic. Heat climbed his neck. He slammed the fabric down, knuckles white. The hem obeyed for exactly as long as the men watched with their curious, idle eyes. Then it sprang again as if attached to their attention by a string.
“Hey,” one of them said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Eli said in a voice like a violin string. It wobbled, light with false brightness. He fled.
At the next corner he met a jogger—tall, friendly, male—and the skirt reacted instantly, a living thing, skimming up in a soft reveal that Eli could not prevent. He wrestled it like something from the sea. The jogger glanced away, embarrassed for them both, and kept running. Eli leaned against a lamppost and cried where no one could see.
He learned the rules by noon. When men were near, the fabric misbehaved. When women were around, it lay meek. Alone, it behaved like any other skirt. Proximity, not intention, triggered the curse. No one needed to leer; a kindly grandfather in a cardigan would do. If the gaze was male, the hem grew light, a helium balloon tugging at its ribbon.
He tried safety measures. Shorts underneath: the skirt rose higher, somehow thinking it a challenge. A long coat: it unbuttoned itself one by one in public like a stage act. Tape at the hem left adhesive kisses on his thighs before peeling away in defeat. He even tried staying home, but the building’s mail carrier knocked—“Package for 3B”—and when Eli opened the door forgetting himself, the skirt tried to go to heaven.
By evening he was exhausted from holding himself together. He called his best friend, Miles, ready to confess everything, ask for help, beg for a wall of female companions to shepherd him through public spaces. Miles answered. “Hello?”
The sound of a male voice through the earpiece made the skirt jump as if pleased to be useful even to a disembodied audience. Eli swore, hung up, and texted instead: Emergency. Come over with Lucy. He included three crying emojis and a skirt emoji because symbols were all he had left.
Lucy arrived alone.
“Where’s Miles?” Eli asked without thinking.
“Work. Why? You wanted me?” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you… you’re—”
Eli told her everything. He told it badly, with detours and winces, because telling the truth under these conditions felt like trying to carry water in knit gloves. Lucy listened, to her credit, without interrupting. When he finished, she was quiet for a long time.
“Did she touch you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And you said what, exactly?”
Eli repeated his line, hating himself: “Couldn’t find the rest of it?”
Lucy’s mouth set in a thin line. “You don’t get to be cruel without consequences. But this—” She gestured at the skirt, which had been angelic in her presence. “This is… extreme.”
“So you believe me?”
She nodded once. “I’ve seen weird things. My aunt reads cards. People carry little storms around. This one landed on you.” She took his hand. “I can’t break a curse. But I think I know how to live around it.”
For the next days, Lucy shepherded him. She insisted on women-only errands and group outings with her friends. They passed men like crossings guarded by polite, disapproving clouds. Eli learned to walk with one hand resting at the hem, fingers ready, the way you learn to carry a too-full cup without spilling. He learned to anticipate air currents, to pivot his hips to shelter the fabric when buses whooshed by. He learned, god help him, to laugh it off when he lost a battle and a passerby glimpsed the lace the curse insisted he wear. The laughter tasted like chalk. He learned to live inside humiliation like a room, finding the corners, learning where to stand so the drafts did the least damage.
Some men were kind. Some looked away. Some pretended not to see and then saw anyway. Eli developed a taxonomy of eyes. The worst were not the leering ones; the worst were curious, puzzled, as if trying to solve a problem whose answer was him.
On the fourth day, he saw the woman from the coffee shop. She sat on a bench in the park, skirt and pendant unchanged, reading. Eli approached stiff-legged, Lucy two strides behind like a quiet stormcloud.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because the apology felt like a key that might fit any lock if only he tried hard enough. “I was cruel. I didn’t know what words can do.”
The woman looked up, and for a moment he thought she would end it. Her eyes were flint and puddles and the glint of soap bubbles: old and new at once. “You know now,” she said.
“Please,” he whispered. “I can’t live like this.”
Her head tilted, not unkind. “Can’t you?” She closed the book, revealing a cover painted with waves. “You can learn. Women learn all the time. You will be spared nothing that your words invited.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Carry the memory,” she said. “That is enough.”
“What if I say I’m sorry and mean it?”
“You should. But the body remembers after the mouth forgets.” She rose. “One day the skirt will obey. Not before.”
She walked away, leaving them with sunlight and fits of distant laughter. Lucy squeezed Eli’s hand. She did not say it would be okay.
Time did what time does: it made routines. Eventually, Eli returned to work—guided by Lucy and their female colleagues, who made human hedges around him in the hall. He learned which streets had the fewest men in the morning, which coffee shop at which hour was staffed entirely by college women rushing a sorority meeting. He made jokes, careful ones, about the weather and never about anyone’s clothes.
He became, against his will, expert at apology. He apologized to women he had mocked in private and in passing, to strangers who would never hear it and to friends who needed to. He meant it. He still hated the skirt; he learned to hate himself less.
On a dawn six weeks later, he dressed as always and felt it at once: the fabric lay different. Not heavier, not saintly—just honest. He stepped outside and the air met him with no deals built into it. A man walked a dog directly toward him. Eli braced, palm ready at the hem. The skirt stayed.
The relief was so light it almost lifted him.
He found the woman in the park without trying. She read as before, pendant dull as a coin no one spent.
“Thank you,” he said, which meant more now than it had before.
She looked up. “Cloth has a memory,” she said again. “So do words. Yours are different.”
He nodded. He believed her. He would always carry the shape of those weeks in his muscles, in the reflex of a hand that still hovered near a hem when a gust rose. He would never again pretend that other people’s bodies existed primarily to entertain his commentary. He had learned how to look and how not to. He had learned which way to stand when a bus went by.
Eli turned to leave. Behind him, on the bench, the woman laughed—not at him, not unkindly. He kept one hand at his skirt out of habit, felt the fabric lying calm against his legs, and walked on.
Comments
SusanGentry
Six weeks isn't long enough. I'd have have made him go six months (at the very least).
