He didn't agree. He didn't deny it, either. Instead, he tossed out another line. "Don't you think she looks like someone?"
I didn't have to think. "The dress she's wearing. That was my style seven years ago."
Christopher smiled. Eyes half-closed, almost lazy, like it was nothing. "That's the one. The dress you used to wear. I gave it to her. You don't mind, do you?" A drag of his cigarette. "You shouldn't mind. It's not like you could fit into it anymore."
I tapped the ash from my cigarette, then stopped mid-motion.
The stainless steel ashtray caught my reflection. Fine lines at the corners of my eyes. Exhaustion etched between my brows. A black V-neck dress that had torn along the seam during the earlier scuffle.
She really did look like a younger version of me. More alive, even, than I had ever been.
And Christopher really had bought me so many dresses just like hers.
I hadn't understood before. Now, I finally did. That look in his eyes every time he watched me put one on, full of expectation, only to go flat with disappointment the moment he actually saw me in it.
Gradually, I grew to hate that hollow pretense of his. I started wearing the styles he despised most.