It Fit Last Season
Same shop, same rail, same number on the same small tag.
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"It's the same dress."
She said it through the curtain, in the voice she kept for arguing with objects. The same dress. Same shop, same rail, same number printed on the same small tag.
"It's a fourteen. I have always been a fourteen."
He said that sizes drift between seasons.
"Don't be kind at me."
Here is what the dress could do in September.
It went over the head. It came down. It closed at the back with a zip that ran unassisted from the base of the spine to the top. There was room at the waist for a flat hand.
Here is what the dress could do in March.
It went over the head. It came down as far as it came down.
The zip travelled four inches. Then it met something, and it stopped travelling.
"Help."
He helped. He put one hand flat against her back and drew the two halves toward each other. They did not want to come. The fabric made the sound fabric only makes once.
"Don't force it."
"I'm not forcing it."
He was forcing it. He had known the answer before the curtain closed, and he had let her go in anyway, because he wanted her to find out with her own hands.
"It fit in September."
"It did."
"So what changed."
He looked at her in the mirror. She looked back. The question sat between them being unanswerable and answered at the same time.
"Get the sixteen," she said. "Get two."
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