“How about... this?” Priti digs around in her duffel and takes out a black halter-neck bralette and a short black denim skirt with silver chains hanging from it.
“No way.” I stare at the outfit as she lays it on the bed. “Nope.”
“Why not?” Priti demands, hands on her hips. “It’s hot.”
“I’m not saying it’s not hot. It’s just—no. I’ll wear my kurti, thanks.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” She walks over to me, looking at the outfit from where I’m standing, as if trying to see what I’m seeing. “What’s the problem, really?”
“It’s—” I start, flushing. “It’s going to show my whole stomach. And my underarms aren’t shaved. Like, I shaved them four days ago.”
“No one gives a fuck if your underarms are shaved or not. And no, it’s not going to show your whole stomach, because this skirt is high-waisted. Besides, what’s wrong with showing your stomach? You’ve got a great stomach.”
“Says the one with the washboard abs.” I grab my paunch, pointing to it. “I have a tummy. It’ll stick out. I’m extremely soft around my stomach and hips.”
“Listen. Just try them on. If you don’t like them, you can wear your kurti.”
Priti picks up the clothes and shoves them toward me. I hastily grab them, holding them against my chest. Then I grumble something about the utter lack of right to choose and head into the bathroom to change. I don’t have a problem with wearing short stuff, but I’m not confident enough to pull off Priti’s style.
Inside, I strip in front of the mirror and stare at the halter-neck top.
Oh shit, wait.
I open the door, poking my head out. “Priti, could you hand me my nipple covers? They’re in my suitcase, to the right.”
“You don’t need them. It’s a padded bralette.”
I shut the door and pick the flimsy thing up. She’s right. There are pads sheathed inside the front lining. Luckily, the bralette can be tied around my neck and back, so I don’t have to worry about it not fitting. Once I put it on, adjusting the knots, I find that it’s steady on my boobs. If I don’t raise my hands too much, the baby hair on my underarms will go unnoticed, as will the ones on my stomach and back. And it’ll be dark, so there’s that.
I slip on the skirt next, and like Priti said, it’s high-waisted, so it covers up my tummy entirely, the denim material bunching around my waist. It flares at the bottom, ending mid-thigh, chains clinking as I rotate, looking at myself in the mirror.
Fuck.
I look hot.
The first thought that comes to my mind is Rudra seeing me in this, and it makes my mouth go dry. But I dismiss the thought just as quickly.
I step out of the bathroom, and the AC makes goose bumps prickle up along my arms. I rub at them furiously, walking over to Priti. She’s dressed as well, and she looks mind-blowing.
The dress fits her like a glove, hugging her sharp, slim curves and baring her brown shoulders and legs. She’s putting on fresh coats of thick kajal, eyeliner, and lipstick. She steps away from the mirror once she’s done, to check and see if her makeup’s good.
“You look unfairly hot,” I say. “As always.”
She turns to me, looking me up and down, and her eyes widen. “Shut up.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Priti walks over to me, and her strong perfume wafts to my nose. She grabs my shoulders roughly, making me crane my neck to look at her. “Krish. You look like a total baddie.” She marches me over to the mirror, standing behind me and shaking me vigorously. “Do you see it? Do you see yourself?”
“I—I do,” I stammer through the shaking, but I can’t help but smile. It feels good being complimented by Priti.
Priti grins. “See? Nothing wrong with taking my fashion advice once in a while.” She sits me down on the ottoman in front of the dressing mirror. “Now let me do your makeup. We need to complete the look.”
Priti spends the next five minutes patiently working on my face. She does a smoky eye for me with winged eyeliner and kajal and proceeds to pull a packet of tiny silver sequins from her makeup case. Shesticks one to the inner corner of my eye, and three in a line along the outer curve, starting from the point where the wing of the eyeliner ends. Then she puts some brown lipstick on my lips, the same shade she’s wearing.
We both sing along to the music playing through her phone set on the bed, and she passes comments and compliments about howthis smoky eye looks so good on youand howthe sequins really make your eyes popand howyou should dress like this way more often.
In return, I tell herhowI could never be as hot as youand hownot many people have the balls to revamp their wardrobes the way you have.
