Glitter theme this year. I pulled out the black dress I’ve only worn once — the one waiting for me at the back of the wardrobe, patient, provocative. The one you gave me.
It slides slowly over my hips, weighs itself into the hollow of my lower back, then opens up to mid-thigh, shimmering in the mirror.
I hesitate. Tights or stockings? There will be couples. I have to choose whether I want to make enemies… or admirers.
And then decide whether tonight I want to go home alone. Or wake up naked, under unfamiliar sheets. My body satisfied or not.
Alex is there with his wife, his kids. I wish he could see me now. He wouldn’t last five seconds, no more. I take a few photos — for him, for me — then give up on sending them. No need to disturb his world. Mine is restless enough already.
I slip on my jacket in the hallway while waiting. Earring adjustment. Makeup check. Enzo texts me: he’s outside. I lift the curtain. I recognize my friend’s Subaru.
I close the door, key turned. Cool air sneaks under my dress, brushes my bare skin.
It’s just New Year’s Eve. And yet tonight… I don’t feel like being well-behaved.
The car reeks of Enzo’s Axe and the Christmas tree — spicy lemon pine, Ajax-style — wobbling from the rearview mirror. I hope that smell doesn’t cling to my skin all evening.
People are buying oysters. And they don’t know how to open them. Nothing’s moving. I take over. I show the gentlemen how it’s done. In a glitter dress, a gold chain around my wrist. And a teasing outfit, with my stockings catching the eye at the slightest excuse. I hold my ground. I’m handed a flute full of bubbles. Glasses clink for the first time. I strike a pose for souvenir photos.
Six dozen later my arm aches, and I could play the delicate one to get a forearm massage. That could be a good start…
Étienne offers to spread foie gras on toast for me. Everything has to start somewhere. Little by little, the bird builds its nest. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Etc.
Alex calls me between two courses. He’s locked himself in the upstairs bathroom at his in-laws’. I retreat into the veranda, glass in hand, wrapped in dim light.
His voice alone makes me damp. 100% cotton lace though, according to the label. Love can’t be ordered. There are tons of things you can’t order on Amazon. My book, you can. But not the effect of Alex’s words. I tip over. If I don’t do this at my age, when will I?
Later. The music lowers a bit, laughter bursts out in the living room. I take advantage of it to stop existing, drift into my stupid thoughts, put away a few glasses, wash things in the sink.
Lukewarm water runs over my fingers, light foam, slow movements. The evening stretches on, hazy and light. I feel a hollow in my stomach. It’s something tight, nothing to do with what I ate. A void between my lower back. Knowing that if I wanted to, I could…
I suddenly feel a presence behind me, immediate, burning. Exactly the medicine I need. Even if it’s just a generic.
A torso brushes my back, a hand settles at my waist, confident.
I stay still, hands in the water.
— I already have someone, I whisper, like a formality.
— Me too, he replies. I know.
I turn off the tap.
— Then what are you waiting for?
— I’ve been waiting for this moment all evening. Fuck, you’re beautiful tonight.
— Nothing’s changed.
— You’re stunning. Just stunning. You’ve been burning my eyes since the start of the night.
— I know. It’s the dress.
— Stop your bullshit. It’s not just the dress.
— You’re right, there are the stockings too…
His fingers slide up along my hip.
— Your breasts are gorgeous, he murmurs. You’re so sexy it’s driving me crazy.
— Did you ever find your glasses again?
I restrain his hand.
— Not here…
He takes my hand, without insisting. Our fingers intertwine as if they already knew each other. He pulls me out of the kitchen, through the empty hallway, steeped in darkness.
The bedroom door opens slightly. A golden light cuts our shadows.
He closes it, turns the key. The sound of metal echoes like a heartbeat in my chest. We’ve known each other for so long. His girlfriend is almost a friend. Why don’t I give a fuck about her? Because she looked down on me for years? Because she should have been here?
He comes closer.
My dress rustles between us, light, ready to fall.
And when his fingers find my skin, time stops breathing.
Our movements slow down, precise, irresistible. Heat rises, blends. His lips search for mine, his hand holds me, pulls me in, opens me. Outside, the world explodes in fireworks and noise, but here there is nothing left — just breath, vertigo, a present burning itself out.
Calm crashes down suddenly after the climax. The room smells of our bodies’ warmth.
I stay lying there, my cheek against his shoulder. He plays with my hair in silence. His hand plays with my breasts. His eyes admire the work. He found the keys to my body, and it’s not just a metaphor.
He smells good, even if I prefer the scent of another skin. His body is pleasant to look at.
Outside, the last laughter fades, night takes back its place.
He’d like me to restore order with my tongue. But I get up. I offer him a tissue. I unfold it magnanimously. He knows what to do with it. He’s grown enough to handle that himself. I want the taste of Alexandre’s. Not his.
I slip my dress back onto my still-glossy skin, soaked with his scent and that smell clinging to my thighs. It’s beautiful. I run my fingers through my hair. I turn the key in the lock. There it is, 2026. Two fine legs under the split fabric. I won’t be a siren again this year.
Fragment “Under the Glitter” – Ophélie Deslys
Thank you for coming — under the glitter.
The continuation on Thursday, Junary 16, 2026: « The Man in My Room »
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