“You like the clothes there?” I ask, smiling.
“No, no,” she backpedals quickly, “I mean, they look kind of nice, but I don’t think they’re the most appropriate things in the world, you know.”
“But you like them,” I press with a teasing grin, and she blushes a little.
“Well, I’ve never worn anything quite like that before, but I’m a married woman, and I really shouldn’t be dressing like that in public, and —”
I bring us to a halt and hold her shoulders with both hands, looking down at her rather seriously, though not harshly. “Cassie, I may be your husband, but whether you’re married or not, the only thing you should be wearing is exactly what you feel like wearing.”
The poor girl wrings her hands for a moment, but the smile tugging at her face tells all, and after a moment of chewing on her lip as she plays with the idea, she nods vigorously.
“Okay, but just for a little bit!”
With that, she leads me by the hand into the boutique.
The place is a jungle of elaborate fabric. It’s clearly some kind of up-and-coming designer trying to break out of its independent phase, and by the looks of the store, it’s well on its way.
“A little bit” turns into nearly an hour of Cassie tearing through the store, brimming with renewed energy, eyes sparkling the whole time. I anticipate feeling bored at the display, but there’s something peculiarly endearing about her enthusiasm as she brings up dresses and hats for me to look at — nearly half the store’s worth.
“You seem to have an affinity for lace,” I remark, and it’s no exaggeration. Cassie has been gravitating towards frilly, lacy dresses, high stockings, and enormous bows.
“Well, these dresses feel like, I dunno,” she twists her shoe into the ground as she tries to think of the expression, “makes me feel like a princess.”
“Well, printsessa,” I bow my head with teasing reverence, “would you like to try some of those royal dresses on?”
10
Cassie
“It’s after ten o’clock — isn’t that a little late to go out?” I ask anxiously from my perch on a bench inside the massive walk-in closet. After a few hours in Central Park earlier, we came home to freshen ourselves up and put away all the masses of new clothes sent to the apartment from the many shops we frequented today. Until I saw them all in one place, I didn’t realize just how much we bought. When we arrived back at the apartment building, there was a veritable mountain of packages waiting to be received in the lobby’s holding area. The poor desk clerk had to call down two assistants to help us carry everything to the elevator and down the hall.
Andrei stands in the bathroom around the corner, checking his reflection, as though he could possibly look anything but handsome. He calls out, “Is this a late night for you?”
“Well, yes!” I answer, crinkling my nose. I can’t believe people actually go out this late at night instead of just sleeping. My father used to always say that the dark hours are when temptations are most abundant, and that only ‘loose women and whoremongers’ went out late at night.
I suppose tonight I am going to be a loose woman.
Standing up and biting my lip as I look down at the clothes I’m wearing, I know that my father would have some choice words to say about my appearance, as well. I’ve never before gone out with so much of my skin showing. I’m wearing all new items purchased today, and I feel violently self-conscious in them.
I also feel kind of pretty.
The dress I’m wearing is lavender-colored, flouncy, and falls to just above my knees. I’ve paired it with knee-high, frilly, white socks and pale pink shoes with slight heels to them. I shake my hair out of its messy bun so that it cascades in soft, full waves around my shoulders. Today, I saw so many beautiful women everywhere with their immaculate hair, chic ensembles, and flawless makeup, and now I feel self-conscious about the fact that I lack all of those things.
Certainly, back home I never felt attractive in any real way, but I also didn’t feel ugly. The standards were simply different in the community I’m used to. Women are less adorned, but they are still expected to be soft and unsullied, totally put-together, even in their modest simplicity. Nobody really wore makeup or flashy clothing, but even our plain looks had to be perfectly arranged to suit the ideal: a clean, subservient, quietly pretty woman willing to obey without question or hesitation. Always willing to follow light-footed in the shadows of a man. We were the little brown birds meant to keep the nest and wait on the scarlet-hued males.