The summer sun emerges and I automatically want to buy a new dress. I imagine crisp linens or flowing fabrics in kelly green and matching patent leather sandals with cork wedges. After escaping my graduate class last week, I felt compelled to take part in a “spot of shopping”—as my mother in-law delicately puts it—the intonations of her accent sounding smooth and unwavering.
Armed with an over-priced soy latte, I emerge onto the streets lined with chic boutiques amongst the high streets, I walked passed each, my reflection of milky winter skin nearly blinding me.
“I must book that holiday villa in Lanzorate for some much needed sun.”
I walk passed each boutique window display and feel drawn to enter through the doorways. It is as if a cyclone force is drawing me inwards. Soft spring colors line the walls, flowing with each open of the boutique door. Always liking the idea of owning my very own boutique, I make a mental note of the jewel-enhanced wallpapers, the mini topiary, the chandeliers. I imagine my own shop with quotations of “I want a chic shop with dresses and jewelery and handbags and stuff …” neatly scrolled on the walls in glossy paint above linen chic-ness. I have so many dreams yet, at present, shopping is of upmost importance.
And at that moment, I spotted it—dainty, flowing, and in my size. I imagined it swishing like a bell as I moved within the layers of material. I had to have it. A slender male figure in infamous skinny jeans and a sheer top of mini flower print greets me with a commissioning smile. His hair is styled with an abundance of hair product, his hips popping from side to side and he sashays. He takes my newly found dress to the back of the shop while I follow with anticipation. I make my way to the dressing room of heavy velvet curtains and oversized poufs—American-ly known as footstools.
Stripping to bareness, my skin feels slightly cool to the touch. Happy to have worn my best knickers (ahem) panties and bra set, I slip into the dress.
