“Does it fit?” the saleswoman called out from behind the velvet curtain.
“Yes,” I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
I took the dress off quickly, as if I were stealing it, and dressed in my own clothes again. My old shirt felt thin and stiff.
At the counter, I counted out seven twenty-dollar bills from the envelope in my purse, the money I had saved from selling my hand-knitted blankets at the autumn fair.
The saleswoman folded the dress into white tissue paper and laid it inside a glossy gray box with a silver ribbon.
The receipt she handed me read exactly one hundred and forty dollars, the ink still slightly damp.
The drive back to the house was quiet, the gray box sitting on the passenger seat like a passenger who knew all my secrets.
When I parked in the driveway, I looked at the front porch, half expecting to see Damon’s car already there, even though it was only three in the afternoon.
I hurried up the steps, the heavy box tucked under my arm, my keys clinking against the brass lock.
The house smelled of morning coffee and old wood. I ran up the stairs to our bedroom, my heart rate rising with every step.
I opened the heavy oak wardrobe, pushing aside Damon’s gray suits and my own row of beige cardigans.
At the very back, behind a stack of winter blankets we had not used in years, there was a dark, narrow space where the floorboards met the wall.
I slid the gray box into the corner, covering it with a wool shawl.
If Damon found it, he would ask why I needed to draw attention to myself, his voice calm and reasonable while he made the dress seem like a foolish mistake.
I closed the wardrobe door slowly, ensuring the latch clicked shut.
