“You’re so fucking rude, you know that?”
“Yes,” he says. “And you’re my wife. Which means you’ll have to dress the part.”
I end up in a changing room with a dozen hangers and a full-length mirror.
The first dress is silk. Actual, real-life silk, the kind that feels like running water on your skin. Just touching it with my working-class fingers makes me feel like I’m bringing down the market value fifty percent.
The second dress has a slit that goes up to my hip. I twirl several times in front of the mirror, trying to see how likely a peek-a-boo situation is.
Answer: pretty damn likely.
The third dress is some kind of blazer-dress hybrid that makes me look like a hot corporate assassin. I pretend to shoot guns in the mirror, making pew-pew noises that leave the shopping attendant perplexed and my husband gritting his teeth.
The fourth is a napkin disguised as a dress. There’s no other way to describe it. I have to choose whether to cover up my boobs or my ass, but there doesn’t seem to be a way to do both. Design flaw? Design feature? I’m way too confused to guess.
Meanwhile, Petyr gives commentary from the couch outside the fitting room like he’s judging a fashion show.
“Too short.”
“Too long.”
“Too tight.”
“Too sheer.”
I roll my eyes every time. “Yes, Mom.”
Eventually, we compromise. I get four dresses, five pencil skirts, a few pairs of jeans, half a dozen blouses, three sleek pantsuits, and enough lingerie to make me blush every time I open the bag.
“You know,” I point out as he hands me one last napkin-esque dress to try on, “for a guy who’s not interested in being married, you’re really into dressing your wife.”
“If I have to look at you every day, I want it to be a pleasant sight.”
Charming.Real Shakespeare, this one.
Later, while I’m fighting with the zipper of this ridiculously short cocktail dress, I yell out, “A little help here?”
The door opens.
I’m expecting the shopping assistant. The very professional, very female assistant.
I amnotexpecting my husband to walk in on me half-nakedandlock the door behind himself.
“Dude!” I gesture at my general state of undress. “Ever heard of knocking?”
His gaze roves over me like I’m the one for sale. Suddenly, the air feels ten degrees hotter.
If he makes a joke about “knocking” me up, I swear to God, I’m getting my tubes tied.
But Petyr doesn’t look in the mood for jokes. Every half-smile I ever managed to crack out of him was throughpainstaking improv work, but right now, I’m not sure there’s much room for that. Actually, I’m not sure there’s much room for anything. This twirling cubicle was clearly not designed with two people in mind.
“You can stop eating me with your eyes,” I say. “I amnevergoing to wear this. I’ve got nowhere to go dressed like this!”
His gaze grows darker. Hotter, if that’s even possible. “You will wear whatever I tell you to wear.”
“Wow. You should say that in front of Gloria Steinem. Really win that ‘Feminist Ally of the Year’ award.”
Despite my wisecrackery, my mouth is as dry as the desert. I follow Petyr’s gaze down my body, his incandescent gold-brown irises lingering on every curve. This dress hides nothing, and he doesn’t seem to mind that. At all.
