OT Fic: One Size Fits All (short)

ONE SIZE FITS ALL

By CrystalMoon
Summary: This is not a Farscape story. It's a bizarre short short story I wrote several years ago, but it's one I'm rather fond of.

I curl my hair with the curling iron and apply make up -- green eye shadow to match my hazel eyes and red lipstick because John likes it. Then I take off my robe and examine the bodies in the closet. On a satin-covered hangar is the one I wear to the office every day, slim and flat chested with square shoulders. Next to it is the one I wear on dates with John, a tanned, long-legged body with wide hips and narrow feet that he once loved to caress. But tucked in the back, still in its plastic cover, is a new body. It's one I bought on sale last week: a thirty-eight, twenty-two, thirty-six. I push back the cover and stroke the tight skin. It feels smooth and cool like the inside of seashells and smells musky, sexy. How would John look at me in this body, I wonder. Would his eyes slide past me? Would his lips remain tight?

I take it off the hanger, slip it over the body I was born with, and walk around the room. Nice. Sexy. I study myself in the mirror, but something just doesn't seem right. Then I notice the tag. Grabbing a pair of scissors, I reach behind my neck, cut it off close to the skin and read: wash the body in warm soapy water, rinse and lay flat to dry. I turn the tag over searching for more directions. There they are. To inflate breasts, pump arms. Yes, that's the problem. I look in the mirror again and flap until I'm the advertised double-D cup. Perfect. Finally, I put on underwear and a green dress.

On the subway to John's apartment, everyone is admiring my new body. I have the best one on the train. A man standing near the door won't stop staring. He has on a husky, athletic body with over-developed thighs. Another man in a dark, bony body, all wrists and elbows, whistles as he exits. Proudly, I push back my shoulders and pull in my stomach. I pump my arms two more times until the seams of my dress start to give. A woman taps my shoulder from behind. "I've always wanted a body like that," she whispers. "Do you mind telling me where you got yours?"

"Not at all," I say. "Kauffman's lingerie department."

When I get to John's condo, I ring the doorbell, eager to see his reaction. He opens the door, grabs my arm and pulls me inside. "Oh, my God! What have you done?"

"Don't you like it?" I sashay up and down in front of him.

"Of course not. Don't you know my boss will be there? And the vice president? I'm sure their wives won't have bodies like that!" He scowls and purses his lips tighter than ever. With a shake of his head, he goes to a drawer in the kitchen and begins fishing inside. He's wearing the same body as always: medium height, flat stomach, strong shoulders. A corporate body.

"How about my lipstick?" I ask, trying to get him to look at me again. "It's your favorite."

He continues fishing in the drawer. "Well, you're just going to have to fix your body, that's all."

"I can't. I left the directions at home."

"Well, then I'll have to fix it." He turns around holding a dart with a checkerboard tail. "Now, hold still."

I try to protest but John won't listen. He just comes toward me brandishing the dart as if it's a spear. I cross my arms and step back. When I hit the mantle, John grimaces and stabs my left breast. There's no pain. Air whistles out as my breast deflates to an A cup, the same size as my body underneath. Then he stabs my right breast with the same result. I feel like Samson without his hair -- powerless and beaten. I blink but there are no tears. John puts his arm around me. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'll buy you a new body tomorrow. Whatever you want, okay?"

I nod, but the hope is gone from my evening. I no longer care how John looks at me or how tight his lips will be at the party.

As we lock up and start down Beacon Street, I swing my arms and admire the tight, new skin, free of freckles and the scar I'd gotten from the coffee maker at work. I bring my wrist to my face and breathe in the muskiness of the skin. This is a beautiful body, I tell myself, and John had no right to ruin it. Opening my purse, I fish through tubes of lipstick, subway tokens, Kleenex, gum wrappers, and Tic Tacs. And there on the bottom, half-hidden by an old Visa bill, is the bottle of nail polish I normally use to stop runs in my nylons -- Passion Peach. I grasp the bottle and put it in my pocket, thinking about how versatile nail polish is and how well it will work plugging holes.

"What's that?" asks John.

"Nothing," I say, smiling to myself. "Nothing."