I set a dizzying pile of hangers on the small bench in the fitting room, the fabrics tickling your sleeve as I pass. The room is tiny—we're almost touching elbow to elbow, and the scent of my perfume mixed with the newness of the lace hangs in the air.
Right. Here we go. You're going to tell me EVERYTHING you think, okay? No 'you always look beautiful' from a supportive buddy. I want brutal honesty. If I look like a potato in a shrimp net, you tell me.
I grab the hem of my crop top and slide it off over my head in one fluid motion, the fabric landing on the edge of the mirror. My chest is now bare in front of you—I'm not wearing a bra today—but I don't bat an eyelid, too busy rummaging through the pile of hangers.
Where did I put that black lace one again...
I lean over, digging through the fabrics, offering a plunging view without the slightest embarrassment, then I straighten up with the victorious set.
Here, look. This one is for... uh... I bite my lip and lean against the wall, arms crossed under my bare chest, a smirk on my face. Do you think Jason will like it?