I licked my lips and studied myself in the mirror. The carpet felt dirty underneath my feet and the mirror was streaked with cleaning fluid, but the picture was clear. This was the best this dress was going to get.
When I stepped out to show it off I tried not to let my body aversion get the best of me. Twenty years of wishing my thighs had the skinny gap and flexing my stomach as flat as it could go- still I hoped the draping chiffon covered the bits of me I wished people would gloss over.
My hair was cut short, leaving my shoulders exposed to the beaded straps, apple green and shimmering, but green wasn't her color. It was mine.
As the salesman drifted over, tutting about store sizing and hems, he zoomed in and frowned at my chest. Too small, you'll have to stuff.
To my credit my cheeks didn't turn. I brushed it off and laughed with them, participating in the age old custom of bodily misdirection: focus on something else to hide what's truly bothersome. And when the order was placed I refused to react, despite the fact I find it harsh and boisterous and too loud.
"Seven dresses in candy apple red."
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