46

I hated my bridesmaid dress with all my strength.

Not that he was a mess of cloths and colors. It was just too fair for my conscience to be convinced that the exaggerated shapes of my body would not attract enough attention alone.

At another time, I might love the gigantic slit on the side of my left leg. I would feel proud of the metal notches that drew a vertical line between my breasts and descended in the cut below my navel. I would love to know that much of my skin was exposed by crisscrossed spans, sewn on the sides to hold the skirt that slipped down my legs with all the delicacy of pearly chiffon. But now, I could only feel uncomfortable with the neckline that bowed to highlight the volume of my breasts.

My grandmother had a huge smile when she entered the room, and I forced a cheerful expression with all the naturalness that my scarce makeup could provide. She praised the red-heeled Prada shoes I chose and murmured to herself about my choice of hairstyle. The choice was not t