an uncomfortable laugh.
“Mine too. She said my arms don’t photograph well.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
Their voices faded as they left.
I remained in the stall staring at the door.
My dress wasn’t an isolated incident.
Clara hadn’t simply bought me something inappropriate.
She had been redesigning women.
Changing sizes.
Changing sleeves.
Changing how she thought we should look.
Then I heard Clara scream from somewhere outside.
“Those are mine!”
I rushed out of the restroom.
The private dining room had erupted into chaos.
A server hurried
