I’m standing in the back room of NOIR, wearing a white silk robe that probably costs more than my rent used to, staring at myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
My heart is pounding.
Not the romantic kind. Not the“Oh, I’m about to see the love of my life”kind.
More like the“I’m about to be dressed by a man whose aesthetic includes phrases like ‘more is more’ and ‘subtlety is for cowards’”kind.
Jasper appears in the mirror behind me. Champagne in one hand. Measuring tape in the other.
“Sugar tits, if I wanted you to look like a disco ball, I’d cover you in actual mirrors. Give me some credit.”
“You literally wanted to put me in sequins yesterday.”
“That was yesterday. Today is your thirtieth birthday. Different energy.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He sets down his champagne and circles me like a shark. “Arms up.”
I lift my arms. He measures my bust.
Pauses.
Measures again.
“Jesus Christ, Mary. Did your boobs grow overnight?”
“Pregnancy does that.”
“Well, they’re doing the Lord’s work. Sugar tits is officially an understatement. We’re in sugarwatermelonsterritory. You went from a solid C to… what is this? DD? E?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding bra shopping.”
“That explains the sports bra situation.” He tugs at the strap visible under my robe. “We’re burning this later.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“It’s a crime against humanity.” He measures my waist. Then stops. Studies my stomach. “You’re showing.”
“A little.”
“It’s adorable.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Same thing.” He writes down numbers on a notepad. “Okay. So. Curvier everywhere. Boobs that could cause traffic accidents. A tiny baby bump that makes you look like a fertility goddess. And hair that’s finally grown past your shoulders.” He taps his pen against his lips. “I’m thinking—”
“Nothing sparkly.”
“I wasn’t going to say sparkly.”
“Nothing tight.”
“Mary—”
“Nothing with cutouts or slits or—”
“Do you want to pick your own outfit?” He crosses his arms. “Because I can just point you to the clearance rack and you can grab whatever black sack appeals to you.”
