Twenty
It’s weird being dressed by someone I don’t know. It’s also weird being made to wear something I’d never choose for myself. The dress, which is apparently the color of champagne and is far too glittery for my taste, hugs my figure all the way down to about my knees, where it flares out just enough for me to move my legs. It comes to an end on the floor a few feet behind me. The sleeves are also ridiculously long, like bell shapes hanging past my fingertips. I’m certain they’re going to find their way into my soup or dessert.
The clothes caster flits about me, making minor adjustments to the dress. “Okay, I think we’re done here.” She steps back to examine me, eyes the gold key around my neck, and opens her mouth.
“I’m not taking it off,” I say before she can tell me it clashes wi
