Her husband, Mr. Fold, the man who conceived of the invention that she is currently modeling, stands behind the photographer wearing a frown and paying more attention to the machinery than to her, which frankly is not unusual. Mr. Fold is not an inventor by trade, but rather the proud owner of chain of dry cleaners known ridiculously as The House of Creases. He has for years been trying to figure out how to get his business into the average household which had led to a number of disasters; large irons too big and hot for a housewife to wield, soap that was supposed to give your clothes that distinctive dry cleaned smell that only left a gray film and the scent of burnt chemicals.
“Invention is a synthesis of magic and innovation!” he would exclaim upon each failure making Mrs. Fold wonder if Mr. Fold knew the definitions to the words that he used.
He swore that this was time different, and had begged her to model for him and not just to save a dime but because he truly thought she was beautiful. Though he would say the words, and often at that, Mr. Fold never made her feel this way, the hot desirous gaze of the male model, Gerald, in the shot with her did. The more she baked under the heat of his naked want, the moister she became. Mrs. Fold should have been embarrassed, but she could see through the plaid flannel of his pajama bottoms that he felt the same. Mrs. Fold was quite glad that Gerald was facing away from not only her husband but the rest of the crew and allowed her eyes to lose their focus as she slid into a daydream of what he would do to her while her husband watched seeing only the gleaming metal of his invention.
When the magnesium flash popped, Mrs. Fold watched a sliver shadow race across the set and then felt along her limbs racing ecstasy. As she was brought close to heaven, a part of her prayed to never leave this moment and then it was gone. Blinking her eyes back into focus she watched horrified as her body walked off the set without her.
Mrs. Fold has had a lot of time to think on things, gazing out from behind time-coated glass caked with nicotine and city dirt. She has wondered why she alone was transfixed, when someone was going to invent something that women could really use, and if inventors had ever got the balance between magic and production correct. She hated to think of all the others regulated to her fate.
Inspired by Write at the Merges smash-up of: