So yes: I frivolous dress order the meal.
But my dress had other plans.
That night, we ate like gods. The dress ordered the duck fat potatoes. The dress demanded the chocolate soufflé at 10:47 PM, long after dessert was “closed.” The dress paid—well, I paid, but the dress took the credit, waving a black card like a tiny surrender flag. -I frivolous dress order the meal-
By A. E. Stedman
The man across from me closed his menu. He looked at the dress. He looked at me inside the dress. And then he did something remarkable: he laughed. “Apparently, we are.” So yes: I frivolous dress order the meal
“I think we’re doing the ordering tonight,” the waiter smiled. Not at me. At the dress. The dress ordered the duck fat potatoes
Last Tuesday, I walked into a restaurant wearing a dress that had no business making decisions. It was sage green, backless, with a skirt that started its sentence somewhere around my ribs and finished with a whisper just above the knee. A frivolous dress. The kind you buy after one glass of Sancerre, thinking, When? and the dress answers, Tonight.