Is it cinched too tight? We can always take out the pins and give you room to breathe. You would go up a size though. (Why would you want to breathe? Numbers define and leave you open to judgement, the higher you climb the lower you are.)
How about this color? No, no that's not right. You're not bold enough for bright red, but this merlot wine... That's the color for you. (You're pale and strained looking and maybe a bit beyond words in the mirror, but if you made some cuts and let them pour- as the wine would over a white table cloth- you would have the same color for less money.)
How about this cut? (Squares box, scoops round, and inverted triangles leave you open to invitation.)
Sure, you've got tits honey, but you've also got a stomach and hips and not to mention your rear end. We've got to balance you somehow. (Balance is something you've never had much of. No one needs to blow air in your direction, they just need to look at you and you'll fall over without fail.)
Not that dress. Heavens no! (You practically rip the foul thing off, and it isn't the dress you wished you were ripping but your own skin. You'd throw it in a pile and walk about as fat, muscles, bones, and leave bloody footprints to tell where you've been and where you are going to. At least then everyone would see the grotesque thing you confront in the mirror and all would agree it is thoroughly repulsive.)
Ah! This is it! (You find the perfect fit, and you glare at the mirror and acknowledge... in fear, in anger, and in awe that you are capable of being beautiful. You are gorgeous. You are radiant. You are a live, feeling, expressive being. You are these things with the right light, the right mind, the right set of eyes to look upon you and the right set of hands zipping the dress up and setting themselves on your shoulders with tenderness, confidence, and good faith.)
C'mon sugar, you're set. Let's ring you up. (And you press your back to the wall out of sheer terror at the prospect of leaving the dressing room knowing what you know and feeling what you feel. You take your other's hand tightly, clench your eyes shut, and step one, two, three...)
How about this color? No, no that's not right. You're not bold enough for bright red, but this merlot wine... That's the color for you. (You're pale and strained looking and maybe a bit beyond words in the mirror, but if you made some cuts and let them pour- as the wine would over a white table cloth- you would have the same color for less money.)
How about this cut? (Squares box, scoops round, and inverted triangles leave you open to invitation.)
Sure, you've got tits honey, but you've also got a stomach and hips and not to mention your rear end. We've got to balance you somehow. (Balance is something you've never had much of. No one needs to blow air in your direction, they just need to look at you and you'll fall over without fail.)
Not that dress. Heavens no! (You practically rip the foul thing off, and it isn't the dress you wished you were ripping but your own skin. You'd throw it in a pile and walk about as fat, muscles, bones, and leave bloody footprints to tell where you've been and where you are going to. At least then everyone would see the grotesque thing you confront in the mirror and all would agree it is thoroughly repulsive.)
Ah! This is it! (You find the perfect fit, and you glare at the mirror and acknowledge... in fear, in anger, and in awe that you are capable of being beautiful. You are gorgeous. You are radiant. You are a live, feeling, expressive being. You are these things with the right light, the right mind, the right set of eyes to look upon you and the right set of hands zipping the dress up and setting themselves on your shoulders with tenderness, confidence, and good faith.)
C'mon sugar, you're set. Let's ring you up. (And you press your back to the wall out of sheer terror at the prospect of leaving the dressing room knowing what you know and feeling what you feel. You take your other's hand tightly, clench your eyes shut, and step one, two, three...)
