The Red Dress, Revisited
The dress is the same size it always was. She, wonderfully, is not.
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The red dress lives in the back of the closet, patient as evidence. It was the dress — the one from the night you met, two sizes and several hundred shared desserts ago. Tonight, at your request, Emma agrees to try it on. She pretends it's a chore. She is already reaching for the hanger.
Watch her as she is now, first — because the dress only means anything if you hold the whole glorious present tense of her in mind. The easy stance. The soft abundance the last two years have written onto her, hip and thigh and belly, every line of it authored at a table for two.
EmmaI can't squeeze into any of my clothes, everything is so tight, and my whole body just feels so heavy.
YouHave you given up on buttons yet? You probably should.
NarratorShe throws a pillow at you with impressive accuracy for someone who claims she can barely move. She is also, for the record, smiling.
EmmaFor the record: if this zipper gives out, it goes down as YOUR fault in the official history.
NarratorYou accept full responsibility. Proudly. Out loud. She rolls her eyes and breathes all the way in.
EmmaOkay. It's on. It's— ha. It is TECHNICALLY on. Don't make me laugh, I mean it, one laugh and this thing detonates.
EmmaEvery button... every seam... is begging for mercy... and I just... keep... eating...
YouYou don't want a new you. You want there to be more of you.
EmmaI can feel it, you know... how heavy I've gotten. Every step... every breath... this body you built, one dinner at a time. And the worst part...? I don't want it to stop. I want to feel heavier tomorrow than I do right now.
And there she stands: zipped by force and sheer optimism, seams holding a grudge, hem renegotiating its whole relationship with her thighs. The dress fought hard. The dress lost beautifully.
She checks the mirror, then checks your face — which is the mirror she actually trusts — and whatever she finds there makes her stand a little taller inside the strained red fabric. Verdict: the dress is the same size it always was. She, wonderfully, magnificently, deliciously, is not.
You order in that night. Obviously. Some victories deserve a feast.
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