Augustine by Maria Samovarova

Augustine’s first memory was on his 6th birthday,
mother standing in front of the mirror neatly applying red lipstick. Her delicate figure, graceful movements, burgundy velvet dress, perfectly laid hair and musk-scented perfumes made little boy feel wild exhilaration.
Later, when little Augustine stayed home alone, he used to wade in his mother’s wardrobe and play the “dressing-up” game. “Pretty housewife”, “Cheerful dairymaid”, “Fair lady” were his favorite looks and every time he put them on- the re-born sensation fully absorbed him. Boy danced and jumped in front of the mirror, but did it very carefully – he didn’t want to spoil dresses, so that mommy could suspect something. Augustine could allow himself only 30 minutes of beloved game. He knew that parents usually came back home unexpectedly, so he quickly hanged outfits, closed the wardrobe and walked down to his room.
During high school and college years Augustine did not have time for his hobby. From time to time, the scent of mother’s perfumes carried him faraway to the childhood memories. Augustine remembered how silky cloth pleasantly tickled his skin, how shiny satin gently streamed down his silhouette and how nicely it was to feel himself so tender and feminine…
Everything  changed when Augustine married Susan. One day he caught a cold and stayed home.  While cleaning their messy bedroom, he’d found Susan’s black lacy bra. With trembling hands he picked up this elegant lingerie and  stared. Weird, but at the same time so familiar shiver ran down his body. Yes. Fair lady Augustina was back. The game has begun. In seconds, he took off all the clothes from himself He put on Susan’s lingerie, thigh high stockings, dress, jewelry, painted his nails, did the make up… The only thing that was missing – long hair. Augustine remembered that somewhere in the attic  was a box with Halloween costumes. He went upstairs and found beautiful blonde curly wig. That’s it. Augustine was fully ready. He puts on scarf, sunglasses and goes outside. Sun is shining brightly, birds are tweeting loudly and you can hear someone’s humming a song:
“Pretty woman, walking down the street
Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet
Pretty woman
I don't believe you, you're not the truth
No one could look as good as you…”