What is it You’re Wearing (Part 1)

What is it you’re wearing? (Image credit; ThisIsEngineering from Pexels)

What is it You're Wearing 

He waited- 

The car engine hummed quietly in the driveway, its headlights slicing through the late afternoon haze. He sat inside the car. It was a truck. He sat in the driver’s seat. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, slow at first, then sharper. He had grown impatient. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Women!” he muttered. Always running late, always delaying. 

His jaw clenched. It had been at least fifteen minutes. No, no, not fifteen, he disagreed in his mind, at least twenty, at least twenty minutes. His grip on the wheel tightened. Yes, at least twenty minutes since he left his wife doing some final touches on her face. He exhaled sharply, reached for the horn. He tapped it—once, then twice. Nothing. His foot tapped against the floor of the car. 

He bent his head a little. To peep. To see if anyone was approaching from the house. His eyes narrowed. He noticed a shadow move behind the curtains. His fingers curled into a fist on his lap. He shook his head. He was getting agitated with every minute flying by. He honked again, this time holding it down a second longer. His patience was thinning into something brittle. 

The front door finally swung open. He bent a little again and peeped. He let out a small, impatient sigh. His wife stepped out. Her eyes flicked down at her phone screen as she walked. Her heels clicked softly against the pavement as she walked toward the car. She was not rushing, she was not walking fast, she just walked; one hand holding her bag, the other smoothing the fabric of her dress. 

He watched her every step, irate in the face. She did not notice. 

The fading sunlight illuminated her as she approached. He did not take his eyes from her. She was clad in a short dress that hugged her body and cinched at the waist, tightly. The dress came stopping slightly above her knees.  

With each step, her hips swayed slightly, unhurried, deliberate. Her hair looked flawless, but she could not stop touching it. She ran her fingers through it, adjusting a few strands, then flicked it behind her shoulder. Her makeup was done to perfection. 

With care not to disorganize any part of her dressing, she slid into the passenger seat. She was not hurrying; she took her time. She sighed lightly, as if it was him who had delayed. Immediately, she was in her seat, she flipped down the sun visor. She pouted, adjusting her lipstick. 

"Is my lipstick fine?" she asked her husband without looking at him. Her tone was light, almost indifferent. He took his eyes off her. He stared straight ahead. He did not say a word. 

Something moved in his throat. He swallowed hard. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, gripping it tightly before relaxing. "Where is she?" he asked softly but firmly. 

She ran a hand through her hair, tilting her head in the vanity mirror to check the lipstick. "Hmm?" 

"Where. Is. She?" His voice was measured but laced with irritation. He turned, facing her as he finished spelling out his question. 

She did not turn to look at him. She adjusted an earring. "Relax, she’s coming." Then, almost as an afterthought, she glanced at him. A smirk ghosted her lips. "You’re so tense!" Her voice was teasing, dismissive. He turned the other side, of his window, staring out. His jaw tightened. 

For a moment, they were quiet. She put her lips together. She elongated her neck to have a view of them in the vanity mirror. Then kept tapping them against each other to make sure her lipstick was in order. 

He turned, he looked at her, his lips parting slightly, a scoff threatening to escape. He pressed the horn again, once, twice. A sharp exhale. She, their daughter, burst through the door. She immediately caught his attention. His body stiffened, his eyes narrowing. 

It was her dress he looked at. His grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles going pale. He nodded his head in disbelief, turned to his wife. She was now fixing the strap of her bag, oblivious. 

Her dress was barely there—short enough to reveal her thighs, tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. She was half walking, half-running toward the car. 

She was eager, excited, unaware of the silent tension waiting inside. 

A teenage body dressed for a place she shouldn’t be. A breath hitched in his throat before he controlled it. His fingers tightened around the wheel, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to his wife. He wanted her reaction. She was now rubbing her cheeks, making sure the lotion was well blended into her skin. 

She did not see. She was occupied. She didn’t react. 

Their daughter pulled open the back door and hopped inside, breathless. She was exuding excitement. "I’m ready. Let’s go," she said. 

He looked at his wife. Again, she was occupied. She was pressing her lips together, ensuring her lipstick was evenly spread. He looked ahead momentarily, breathed hard. Then he turned fully in his seat. His shoulders squared. He gazed hard at their daughter. His voice was slow, deliberate. 

"What is it you're wearing?" 

The girl blinked. "What?" She retorted, as if surprised by the question. 

Before he could repeat his question, her mother spoke. "Oh, stop it. She’s fine." A quick wave of her hand, as if dismissing nonsense. She didn’t turn to look at him or her. She was working on her eyelashes in the vanity mirror. "That’s the style, she’s a teenage girl, that’s how teenagers dress these days." 

She paused; she turned away from the vanity mirror to look at him. He kept looking at their daughter, their daughter staring outside the window. "You’re acting like it’s the 18th century," she continued. Her voice was light, amused, like she found the situation ridiculous. "Loosen up, why are you so tense?" 

His eyes stayed on their daughter. Their daughter stared away from the window to her father, then mother, uncertain whether she should say something. The mother smirked, a dry chuckle escaping as she turned to the vanity mirror again. "Come on, it's the 21st century." 

He turned slowly, stared straight ahead. His stare was cold, unblinking. His grip on the wheel relaxed for a moment, then tightened again. "Really?" he muttered under his breath. 

A thick silence settled. The daughter looked outside the window. The wife brushed her eyelashes softly in the vanity mirror. 

Then, his voice turned firm, final. "Get out of my car," he said, turning to the wife and then the daughter. 

His wife snapped her head toward him, her playful smirk vanishing. "What?" 

"You heard me. I’m not going to move with my daughter dressed like this while the mum defends her. Both of you. Get out." 

His wife scoffed, crossing her arms. "Are you serious right now?" 

He looked straight ahead, jaw set. "I said, get out," his voice was firm, he turned to her. "If that’s what she’s wearing and you’re defending it, you can find your own ride." 

The daughter sat frozen in the back, eyes darting between them. 

The wife laughed, shook her head. "Unbelievable!" She reached for the door handle, yanked it open, and stepped out angrily, letting the door slam behind her.  

He remained staring ahead.  

"Come on," she said to the girl, motioning for her to follow. 

The girl hesitated but obeyed. The moment her feet touched the pavement and the door was closed the car engine revved. Without another word, he drove off, leaving them standing in the driveway. 

At the party- 

They arrived separately. By the time they did, the party was in full swing. Their friends were celebrating a second birthday for their daughter. 

Laughter, chatter, the occasional clink of glasses—none of it reached him. When he arrived, he had greeted the hosts stiffly, gave a polite nod and gravitated toward a quiet corner. 

In the quiet corner, he stood by the table. His fingers wrapped around a cold beer bottle. He kept tapping it lightly against his palm before taking slow, measured sips. He was there but not really there; it felt like a celebration show he had to catch on a TV set without his full involvement. 

His wife, however, flourished in the small crowd. She lit up, laughing easily, engaging animatedly with friends. It was as if nothing had happened. Her demeanor was effortless, her charm uninterrupted. 

She swayed around, shared banter, laughed loudly. Her hands moved as she spoke, touching shoulders, brushing arms, leaning in just enough to hold attention. At some point, she had moved around with a platter of salads, serving other guests.  

When she reached his table, she had paused, her eyes lingering on him before setting a portion on his saucer. He had looked away, avoiding her gaze. She chuckled softly, her fingers trailing over his hand as she turned and walked away. 

The daughter mingled around with other kids. Her friends. Occasionally, she would glance at her father and immediately look away when they made eye contact. 

As the party progressed, the father of the birthday girl came to his table, clamping a heavy hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. 

"Man, your daughter is growing up fast, huh?" 

A slow, forced smile stretched across his lips. "Yeah, they grow fast, don’t they?" 

The friend chuckled, pulling his hand away and grabbing a beer from the table. "It’s amazing, you know," the friend mentioned, "before you know it, she’ll be off to college, then dating, then marriage," he paused, looked at his own daughter, "time flies, man. You ready for that?" 

He forced a laugh, “Stop it. I barely know her yet. I don’t want to face that reality now,” he said as he glanced toward his daughter, watching her throw her head back in laughter with her friends. 

The man exhaled through his nose, offering nothing but a curt nod. He sipped his beer, rolling the bottle slowly between his fingers. "I can understand. It scares me too." 

On the other side of the room, the mother of the birthday girl found his wife, leaned into her. "Why did you two arrive separately and late?" she asked playfully. 

The wife waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, you know him—always so impatient." She let out a light laugh, but it was just a second too quick. She threw a casual glance across the room. He was watching. Their eyes met. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. 

He had heard every word. 

His expression didn’t change. He took another slow sip of his beer, his eyes sliding away from her. He continued talking with the birthday girl’s father. 

When the cake-cutting came, the small crowd gathered around a small table. Guests shuffled into position, pushing forward slightly, their shoulders brushing against each other. The man stood behind, further back than the others. He sipped his beer. Watched. 

The wife clapped and cheered and took pictures with the birthday girl’s mother. 

The daughter giggled with friends, enjoying the moment. 

While the wife took pictures, they had shared glances, each holding it a second too long before looking away. 

The ride home- 

When they had eaten cake, he moved, tapped her shoulder, nodded. His voice was low, almost distant. They were getting late. Had to work the following day. 

The sky had darkened completely. In the car, no one spoke. The engine purred softly. The silence hovered over them like mist. He would occasionally turn to see the daughter, stealing glances at her through the rearview mirror. She was staring outside, arms folded, her reflection faintly visible against the glass. She hadn't said a word since they left. 

The wife absently scrolled through her phone. The faint glow from the screen lit her face, her fingers moving in a steady, mindless rhythm. She never said a thing. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, his jaw locked, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His grip on the wheel was firm, knuckles whitening before relaxing. 

It was a silence that said everything. 

When they reached home, the daughter was the first to move. She stepped out, walked briskly, followed by the mother. The door of the house shut behind them without hesitation. 

The man remained in the car for a moment, his hands still gripping the wheel, staring blankly at the dashboard. The engine was still running. He exhaled sharply, then reached for the key, turning it slowly. The engine stopped and for a moment, he just sat there. His fingers flexed around the wheel before he finally pushed the door open. 

Inside, he closed the door behind him. The house was quiet. Too quiet. He moved to the hallway, his footsteps slow, hesitant. It was hollow. His daughter’s door was shut. He stood staring at it. His hand twitched slightly at his side, as if considering knocking. 

He started to move towards it but stopped just right in front of it. His breath was slow, controlled. He stared down at the floor, his shoulders sinking. 

He turned, stood in the hallway, hands on his hips, breathing slow and deep. His eyes flicked between the closed doors, their daughter's then their own. His home suddenly felt foreign to him. Like he was standing in someone else’s house. 

He leaned by the wall, then slowly sank onto the floor. His back hit the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His arms folded tightly across his chest. His head dropped. 

It was happening. 

He was losing them. 

And he didn’t know what to do. 

The hallway remained silent. 

END OF PART 1 

EzroniX Short Stories.