Aria was already on dress number eight.
I lounged in the waiting area of the boutique, the kind of place with soft gold lighting and champagne flutes offered like apologies for the prices. My fourth complimentary water bottle sat sweating beside me while I scrolled aimlessly on my phone.
Then the curtain whipped open, and—
"No," I said immediately.
Aria struck a pose, hands on hips, the chaos incarnate in a sheer, floor-length jumpsuit covered entirely in sequins.
"No?" she echoed, mock-offended. "This is everything."
"You look like the lead singer of a nineteen-seventy's space disco revival," I replied, deadpan.
"It's vintage space disco revival," she corrected, twirling dramatically. The sequins caught the light, sending tiny, blinding reflections dancing across the walls. "Imagine the entrance I'd make. He wouldn't know what hit him."
"He'd probably think he needed to check his drink for hallucinogens," I pointed out.
