I looked at my reflection in the glass, at my faded denim jacket and the worn pearl earrings my mother had given me when I turned thirty .
The brass bell above the door chimed as a woman in a wool coat emerged, leaving the door open long enough for the scent of lavender and expensive starch to drift down to the sidewalk.
I was inside before I could think of a reason to turn back.
The shop was silent, the heavy green carpet muffled the sound of my flat shoes.
“I just got it yesterday,” the saleswoman said, walking around a rack of wool skirts, a measuring tape slung over her shoulder like a silver snake.
I touched the hem of the green silk, my fingers feeling the roughness of the smooth fabric.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, “but I have nowhere to wear something like that.”
“Your family is planning dinner, right?” she asked, adjusting the coat rack next to me. “I think it’s time you did something just for yourself.”
