One weekend I took Tracy shopping. She absolutely loved clothes, and she mesmerised me so completely that I could watch her try them on all day long. It was a sweltering, humid day in mid-August. She was wearing a wispy designer babydoll dress with no sleeves or straps. The bustline hugged her breasts appreciatively, allowing a generous amount of her impossible cleavage to peek out on top. The material flowed away from her ribcage and down to mid-thigh, where her stick-thin yet shapely legs emerged, culminating in six-inch high wedge sandals. Her tiny arms and frail shoulders were completely bare and I caught more than one woman glaring at her in envy and disgust. Those huge dark eyes hid behind giant sunglasses that dwarfed her face. She sipped petulantly on an iced coffee drink as we wandered from shop to shop, peering in the windows at almost every one until she decided where to go first.
"That dress is so cute," she cried, trotting right up to the window and pressing her hands against the glass.
"Why don't we go in?" Just imagining her in the form-fitting, bright yellow affair she was admiring was a treat in itself and I hoped to see her try it on.
"That store doesn't carry small enough sizes," she pouted, stepping back. "Let's go across the street."
We went in to the other store and she made an inordinately large selection of outfits, intending to put on a show for me. I took "the boyfriend seat" outside the fitting room and waited. She emerged in a succession of sexy and colorful garments, ranging from casual to black-tie wear. Half of them fit her beautifully and half of them were just a scoche too big on her, a fact that she declared loudly every time in exaggerated frustration, "Augh, I'm just too small for this!"
Finally, she settled on half a dozen of her favorite well-fitting pieces, we paid, and left. I carried the bags in one hand and she held the other. More than once I noticed her staring at other women and she would squeeze my hand possessively. Once she even demanded, "Were you checking her out!?" I said no, of course not, and it was true; no other woman compared to her in the least. How can one admire a Thomas Kinkade with a Caravaggio in his possession? We strolled around for another half hour or so, but between the heat and humidity my dear Tracy was worn out. She suddenly stopped mid-stride, panting softly as she clung to my arm.
