That night, she zipped herself into it. The lace was cool against her skin, the scalloped edges hitting just above the knee. She didn't have a gala to attend or a high-stakes date. She simply walked down to the corner bodega to buy a carton of milk.
As the automatic doors hissed open, the fluorescent lights caught the deep crimson threads. The cashier, who usually didn't look up from his phone, paused mid-scan. A woman in the frozen aisle stopped with a bag of peas in her hand.
She had spent three months' worth of "fun money" on it after seeing it in a boutique window during a downpour. It was intricate, daring, and entirely impractical for her life in a cubicle.
The box sat on the vanity, its weight far greater than a few yards of fabric should be.