Read Vee for Free Online Page A

hair cascades over the pillow and it
still doesn’t seem real.
    I did help you dye it, even though I mourned every
strand of blue covered by the conservative color. But I did it,
wiping the dye from your ears so it wouldn’t stain, making sure we
covered every inch. I didn’t recognize you when we were done--the
sophisticated young woman. Once we found you some clothes to fit
your new look, you could have been someone else. And in subtle
makeup, dark, muted lipstick, you could pass among the young
professionals of Wall Street or Fifth Avenue with ease.
    I stopped writing for a moment and rose from my
chair, tiptoeing to the side of the bed, watching your chest rise
and fall. I smoothed your hair off your forehead and you smiled in
your sleep.
    My own hair, now a dark purple with a few strategic
pink highlights, falls over my forehead as I sit writing again, for
you. I’m glad I did it, though I still have that twinge of worry
that I look ridiculous, like some poor old lady trying to re-live
her youth.
    “If Betsey Johnson can do it,”
you’d reasoned as you made me sit on the edge of the tub, applying
hair color with the skill of a master, “so can you.”
    “Betsey Johnson has an excuse,”
I’d replied. You stuck out your tongue and I started to
laugh.
    “Don’t move!”
    The purple speckles on the bathroom wall will always
make me smile. I didn’t think my laughter was so physical.
    While I showered, you tidied up--or so I thought.
I’ve obviously been writing too much if you had time to dig in my
closet and find the old combat boots I’d tucked away. Don’t think
that I’m angry, because I’m not. It just means that we ought to
spend more time doing things. When you read these words, come tear
me away from the computer. I’ll probably need it.
    You had an entire outfit laid out for me when I
emerged, and it brought back memories. Torn jeans, safety-pinned
together. A skin-tight black tank top. A studded belt. And, a
leather jacket almost exactly like the one I’d had, the one stolen
from me a few weeks after Lucie died. You’d studied that one photo
of her and I, and recreated my entire look.
    My hair is better now than it was back then. It’ll
grow on me, likely just in time for it to fade back to my normal
color.
    You watched as I dressed, anticipation in your eyes,
lips parted. I could see the lust, the appreciation. You licked
your lips as I slid the jeans up my thighs, over my bottom. When I
was fully dressed you came over and we looked into the full length
mirror at the end of the bed. If you’d had your purple hair, we’d
have been punk rock bookends.
    We made quite the impression at the party. The
managing editor at the magazine sidled up to me while you were
getting our drinks.
    “Very old-school,” he said,
looking pleased with himself with his use of modern slang. The man
is seventy-five if he’s a day. “But who is that young thing? She’s
not your usual type, Alex.”
    I turned to watch you, poised and elegant as you
moved through the crowd of expensively costumed drunks. “You’ve met
Sylvia, haven’t you, Robert?” I asked, laying on the innocent
surprise.
    I had to tap his chin to remind him to close his
mouth. He looked properly chastised and he was discomfited enough
that the tips of his ears went pink.
    When you arrived with our drinks, I’d never been so
relieved--in another moment I would have laughed at poor Robert,
and then where would I be? That man without his dignity would be a
shell of himself, and I’d never get another job from him.
    I spent the rest of the party itching to leave, to
take you home and get you naked. And now that we’re here, I’m going
to stop writing, and go wake you up.
    ***
    You did find this earlier than I wanted, but it’s
worked out better than I thought. Maybe I have some talent as an
erotica writer, since you came to bed so ready. I wish you could
wake me up every night with your tongue flicking my clit. Even
better that you held my