The dress was purchased after her deliberation in the dressing room; a turning examination of the mirror's image. Standing there with the door half open, he was there too, watching her admire herself in it. She'd just dragged him off the street and into the store; her reaction to the sight of it hanging in the window. A glance at the price had sealed the deal. $15.00. It was that too cheap to be true feeling. WAY too cheap, but it was true, and the first time she wore it out, (with him again, to a friend's party) she'd felt like a princess. Well, sort of. An urban princess at least, the paper bag kind.
Weeks later the magic was gone. The garment was a wrinkled and disheveled shell of fabric. She put it on once more and examined her reflection. There she saw it, ballooning clownishly in parts while clinging unflatteringly to others. It was a purple parachute. She was hot air.
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