When Wearing Black on a Thursday

At security, Jonathan remarks that she’s never worn black on a Thursday.

Caroline almost doesn’t hear him. It’s not because he’s speaking softly, but because they’ve never conversed. Come to think of it, she can’t remember if she’s ever heard his voice until he commented on her outfit.

It was just a black dress that she found in her closet with the price tag still on it. The number four hundred crossed off, then a blacked out three hundred, and the winning discount--One twenty-nine. Truthfully, Caroline still thought that was thirty dollars too much for a simple silhouette, but she was shopping for something to wear to a former classmate’s funeral, and, as usual, she was short on time.

When she got to the funeral, it became clear that the dress bordered on inappropriate, not because of a plunging neckline or the way it revealed her legs, but because it seemed to give off an evening vibe that clashed with all the grief. Never one to wear anything that cost more than a hundred dollars any less than a thousand times, Caroline made a mental note to wear the dress to work the next time one of her more upscale clients was scheduled to meet with her.

She murmurs something to Jonathan about how the dress is new. Perhaps she mentioned it being on sale, not that it was any of his business. She runs her badge over the console by his desk, and makes her way to the elevators.

The Packman-Fleischer building is one of the newer mini-skyscrapers in downtown Chicago, but Caroline’s company bought out the top three floors. When she first interviewed at Wagner & Associates, the shere height being flouted by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the city nearly gave her a panic attack. Over the past two years, she’s learned to deal with her acrophobia so that now it’s a dull tapping at the back of her throat, but when the elevators first open every morning, she still has to remind herself to breathe as she’s stepping onto the deep blue carpet.

Her entry routine is consistent provided Ana, the sneezing receptionist, decides not to give in and call out sick. She greets Ana with her coffee order, an action that has endeared her to the beleaguered woman so much, she now gets a daily rundown of office gossip before she even reaches her desk.

Instead of the usual effusive gratitude for the latte, Ana looks at Caroline and says “You never wear black on a Thursday.”

When Jonathan brought up her wardrobe choice downstairs, Caroline was so surprised by it that she didn’t even bother to point out that she never wears black--ever. That made the assertion that it was odd for her to wear that color on a Thursday somewhat inaccurate since it implied that she wears black on other days.

If not for the meeting she was already ill-prepared for with Aria Jeans, she would have said some version of that to Ana, or maybe not, since correcting Ana on anything meant delayed histrionics. Caroline would call her to place a lunch order and she’d hear the receptionist sniveling and know that she was the cause all because she couldn’t listen to a simple statement like “You never wear black on Thursdays” and take it for what it is--a harmless observation.

The fact that both Jonathan and Ana had come up with the same observation was perplexing, but it was a Thursday and people behave in perplexing ways on a Thursday. The day felt as though it should be the end of something--the week, the stress of the week, the denouement of whatever work had been accomplished up to then--and instead there was the epilogue of Friday that seemed unfairly tacked on for no good reason.

As soon as she logged into the telemeeting, her contact at Aria, a very handsome twenty-something named Luke, private messaged her--

You never wear black on Thursdays.

She didn’t respond. This had to be some sort of prank. Why else would this keep happening? Was the dress too flashy? It was too sleek for a funeral, that was true, but around the office? The dress code at Wagner & Associates was hardly conservative. The men never wore ties anymore, and Ana once came in wearing a bathing suit top after her washer broke. Nobody seemed to bat an eye. When it came to fashion and the modern business world, the important thing was to look expensive, and sexy always read as high-priced. Not to mention the fact that nobody wanted to be the one to ask if a look was too sexual and risk being dragged into HR. Better to just let people dress how they like and fire them for something menial if it became too much of a problem.

But her black dress? It was nondescript. It would barely register at any nightclub, and she had paired it with absolutely nothing. No excessive make-up, no jewelry, and a small red purse that was now tucked in her desk drawer next to a bag of almonds and a book she’d gotten at an office Yankee Swap last Christmas. Something about how to have a career while being funny, or maybe the book was a humorous look at being a career woman. She didn’t know since she’d never even cracked the spine.

Messages came pouring in from everyone else in the meeting--all about her black dress. She didn’t respond to any of them. Why should she? Why were people paying attention to what color she wore and when? Didn’t any of them find that to be creepy? She noticed things about people all the time without voicing what it was she was witnessing. Ana once wore a faded gray sweater for the entire month of August during an oppressive heat wave and Caroline never once brought it up. Who raised these people?

Despite her best efforts to limit leaving her office that day, every time she did, someone new commented on her color scheme. Her boss Dave even sent her an email after she walked by his door--

Caroline,

Since when do you wear black on Thursday?

Everything okay?

~ D

Dave would be the one to add concern to an intrusion as though it would make it any less intrusive. She decided to leave early and throw the dress out when she got home. Caroline resented having to make any changes to her day or her attire simply because people couldn’t keep their thoughts to themselves, but she knew there weren’t any other options. If the dress was a problem, she wasn’t going to die on the hill of defending it. She had other dresses, and if someone else died, she would simply send flowers and a card.

On her way out of the Packman-Fleischer building, Jonathan waved goodbye to her and she seriously considered raising a middle finger in his direction. He had started all this. She wasn’t sure how, but she felt that he had.

Instead of calling for a car, she chose to walk the twelve blocks back to her apartment so she’d have a chance to cool down. It didn’t occur to her that the sky was too dark for that time of day, and when she heard the crack of thunder, she knew she should duck into a store and wait out the oncoming deluge, but since her day had already been derailed, she yanked her shoes off and began to run.

The rain caught up with her on the next block, and as pellet-sized drops landed on her dress, she noticed the color running off it. It looked like some sort of magic trick, but it might have been cheap dye or some other reasonable explanation. Whatever the cause, Caroline’s dress was no longer black by the time she reached her building. It was now a collection of purples and pinks with splotches of bright orange towards the hem and around the back.

When her doorman saw her, he held the door, and as she walked by him, he cleared his throat. Caroline stopped right in front of him, and waited for it.

“Yes,” she asked the little old man, who had been with the building since the late 90’s and was always threatening to retire, but never would.

The doorman, whose name Caroline never learned despite seeing him multiple times a day, opened his mouth, seemed to have an idea, and shook his head.

Unsure what was possessing her, Caroline looked at him and said--

“The dress used to be black.”

A look of satisfaction crossed the doorman’s face.

“Yes,” he said, “I had a feeling.”