The dress rack at the Goodwill is packed today. The crimson, sapphire, and emerald prom dresses, sway awkwardly side to side across the gymnasium floor, the smell of roses off her wrist, the hopeful condom in his pocket. The hangers click click as they are pushed down the greasy poles of the rack. Five dusty rose bridesmaid dresses, crinkling organza, a champagne stain on a skirt, slightly slurring, stumbling across the dance floor, all joined together in I’ll never wear this again. A royal velvet evening gown, a slit up the side, bourbon, cigarette smoke, and perfume, holding court at the bar. The silver and black sequined party dress, flashing and winking, wrinkled from the sweaty back seat of a taxi ride. Then the queen, the frosted confection, sweetheart neckline, pearl encrusted bodice, cap sleeves, tulle skirt, smelling like lilies, virginal, pure, as if it had never been worn, a dress left at the altar.
Norma Zimmermann worked for many years as a medical technologist. She is now retired and loves to write flash fiction, prose poetry, and poetry. Her work has appeared in BrightFlash Literary Review and Turtle Way. She lives with her husband of forty-eight years in Massachusetts.
Lost Balloon 