The unfurling of Frances Simmons
As soon as she saw the dressing gown, Fran wanted it. She stood in front of the brightly lit boutique window: rain dribbling down her face, warm in her drab winter coat and boots, and gazed at the sumptuously robed mannequin that stood centre stage, one plastic arm elegantly extended.
Calling it a dressing gown did it an injustice. It was an undressing gown: its rose silk-velvet folds and creases begged to slip from bare white shoulders in flickering candlelight.
The small, hand-inked sign in the window informed her that the gown was, in fact, a vintage kimono and worth two weeks of groceries. Once, she might have indulged. Now she belonged in sensible brushed cotton: something to cover open-backed blue hospital gowns and protect her from the impersonal gaze of medical professionals who liked to tell each other how well she had healed, considering.
Every night Fran re-learnt the shape of her scars: the rough ridges, the puckered, itchy flesh that covered her rib cage, her stomach, her right thigh. Every night she fell asleep willing them to disappear. Every morning, she traced their lines again.
~
That winter was a grey procession of mean winds and icy puddles. At least once a week Fran paused at the boutique window, and each time the mannequin beckoned to her. It was ridiculous. It was impractical. She had no reason to indulge and no money to spare. At least come in and try, the mannequin whispered to her through the glass.
The daffodils peered defiantly above the rim of the pots on her balcony. She ignored them. It wasn’t until the peony started to bud that she felt herself stir. Only three flowers this year because she hadn’t been there to prepare the Autumn soil when they needed it. That the plant had managed anything in the face of such neglect delighted her. The day the peony finally unfurled its oh so delicate rippled petals was the day she pushed open the shop door and stepped inside.
~
What kind of woman owns a rose silk-velvet kimono? Not the kind of woman who stayed in bed until the evening news. Not the kind of woman who looked at dirty plates then turned her back on the sink for another day. Fran wiped down the kitchen counter and loaded the dishwasher. The kimono remained in the wardrobe, still in its bag.
~
May became June and daisies sprinkled the grass. The heady scent of the pink dog roses in the public park twined itself around unsuspecting shoppers on the High Street. One morning, returning library books, Fran saw an advert for a life drawing class – Models Required, call Sam.
Perhaps a woman who owned a rose silk-velvet kimono might be the kind of woman who sat naked and let people draw her. It was a crazy idea, but Fran took down the number anyway, and that night, trembling, nauseous, she phoned it. Sam had a deep voice. He sounded kind. Fran mentioned the scars. Not a problem. We get all sorts, he said. Fran tried to decide if she minded being lumped in with the all sorts. It can get nippy between poses, he said. Bring a dressing gown.
~
She still hadn’t tried on the kimono when she arrived at the studio. Sam, a young man with long hair and a firm handshake, showed her the dressing room. The undressing room. Take your time, he said, I’ll knock before I come back in.
Fran pulled her summer dress over her head. Goosebumps. Her hands told her the scars were still there. She undid her beige bra and slipped down her large, soft panty’s. Then she pulled the kimono from its wrappings.
Sam knocked at the door. ‘Are you ready?’
The kind of woman who wears a rose silk-velvet kimono will smile brightly when Sam opens the door. She will walk like a duchess to the chair on the small dais at the front of the class. She will raise her hand graciously in greeting when the twelve artists say hello from behind their easels; when the time comes, she will pull the sash from her waist and let the kimono slip from her shoulders so that rose velvet pools, petal soft, around her hips. The artists will pick up their brushes without a murmur; their gaze will be as light as silk. She will stretch slightly. She will push out her belly and breasts towards the sun that shines through the big skylight. She will close her eyes and let the sun warm her.
Fran wrapped the kimono tight around her, took a deep breath.
‘Ready,’ she said.
Editor’s note: A longer iteration of this piece appeared in the Sydney Hammond Memorial Competition Anthology, 2021 (Hawkeye Press, Australia).
Jack Morris lives in Brighton, UK. She has a Masters in Creative Writing from the Open University. She’s hopelessly dedicated to brevity and is proud to be in both Best Microfictions 2026 and the Fish Anthology 2026. Published work at https://www.thewavingnotdrowningblog.com/
