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I dance with Mandy in the shop’s dingy basement. I stole her from the lingerie department, along with the flimsy nightie I wear for our clandestine evenings together. She’s not like the real Mandy. Unlike my friend’s sun-kissed skin, her plastic skin is cold. She is featureless: no mop of hair, no freckles, no lipsticked lips. I dance with Mannequin Mandy – her full name – on a dirty floor, wearing the high-heeled shoes the real-life Mandy chose for me. Before I go home, I kiss and then hide my lifeless dance partner behind the antiquated boilers.

6 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Drew Martyn about 3 years ago

    So sad, albeit beautifully and evocatively done. Nice one! :)

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 3 years ago

    I really like this, Julie. You have told it beautifully and helped the reader see the story beyond the words through its implicit sadness.

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 3 years ago

    (PS... noticed from your profile, Julie, that your excellent drabbles have been quarterly for the past year - thought I hadn't seen anything from you recently. I hope that you find time after your wife and mumly duties to post a few more, although I realise that life does have this habit of getting in the way sometimes!)

  • avatar

    Julie about 3 years ago

    Thank you Drew and Neville :)

    Neville, I'm afraid a combination of real life and another writing project meant the drabbles have taken a back seat for a while. I do intend to write more when I have the time (which sounds ridiculous because it's only 100 words, but, as I'm sure you know, it's writing the right 100 words that's the difficult part!).

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 3 years ago

    We can wait Julie. Didn't mean to pressurise, merely compliment. :-)

  • avatar

    Julie about 3 years ago

    No worries, Neville. I took as a compliment :)

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