The brass bell above the door chimed as a woman in a wool coat walked out, leaving the door open just long enough for the scent of lavender and expensive starch to reach the sidewalk.
I found myself stepping inside before I could think of a reason to turn back.
The shop was quiet, the heavy green carpet swallowing the sound of my flat shoes.
“It just came in yesterday,” the saleswoman said, coming around a rack of wool skirts. She had a tape measure draped over her shoulder like a silver snake.
I touched the hem of the green silk, my fingers feeling rough against the smooth fabric.
“It is beautiful,” I said, “but I have nowhere to wear something like this.”
“Your family is planning a dinner, isn’t he?” she asked, adjusting a hanger near me. “I think it is time you did something just for yourself.”
The words felt heavy in the quiet room. I looked at the tag hanging from the sleeve: one hundred and forty dollars.
“The dressing room is right through there,” she said, gently taking the hanger off the rod and pressing the silk into my hands.
Inside the small curtained booth, the mirror was framed in warm yellow bulbs. I took off my denim jacket, unbuttoned my plain cotton shirt, and let the green dress slide over my head.
The silk was cool against my skin, fitting close around my waist before falling in soft folds to my knees. For a second, I did not recognize the woman in the glass; she looked taller, her shoulders straighter than they had been in years.
I smoothed my hands down my thighs, feeling the weight of the fabric.
