The client has a studio sale, dresses from past collections she hasn’t sold. She used to be a designer. Jersey dresses, lots of volume here, fit there. The kind that you can’t always make sense of on the hanger but that look way better once you get them on. The husband and wife go together. The wife tries on a few. She lands on one. Ginger Rogers in a nautical-themed movie, navy fitted bodice, three-quarter sleeves, ankle-length navy-and-white-striped voluminous skirt. It looks great on her, but it’s a mood. She’s not a long-dress person. She asks the client how much. The client smiles coyly and whispers in her ear. It’s free. The wife isn’t sure she hears the client right, asks her to say it again, again the client whispers It’s free, and we need to add here that it’s a sexy whisper, like the client is meaning to seduce the wife as well as the husband, or at least put her under a spell. The wife says No, no, I have to give you something. She lets the wife give her seventy-five dollars. The dress does not get worn. The husband and wife separate so that he can explore with the client. There has been no time for there to be a mood for the dress. Now there’s a new mood. The mood is burn the fucking dress. But she doesn’t want to burn her house down with it, so the dress goes out with the trash. She puts it on top of the bin, puts it back in the bin. She has a fantasy that someone will pull it out of the trash, wear it around town.

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