If I was going to be yacked up on, at least I wasn't wearing anything nice. Which is the only good thing that could be said about my dress that evening.
There wasn't really a whole lot of choice. I could either wear my high-school prom dress, about which the kindest thing to say was at least it didn't have a Gone With the Wind crinoline, or the nicest of the casual dresses I owned (none of which was newer than three years). Hmmmm.... Gunny Sax Laura Ashley flashback or pink shapeless cotton thing? I opted for pink on the theory that I might be invisible in that, while Laura Ashley was impossible to hide. I still think that was the right decision; I wasn't invisible being front and center with the toilet bowl and all, but that old prom dress might have pushed the poor cadet over the delicate to-spew-or-not-to-spew line.
So I spent the evening inwardly writhing and hoping I didn't make Kirk look like an idiot for dragging along someone who didn't care enough to dress up. I wasn't going to say anything to him about it - we both knew we couldn't afford new clothes at the moment so what was there to say?
Two weeks later Kirk came downstairs to our bedroom carrying a large, flat box. He had quietly sold some of his Soviet things - including his prize KGB watch - and carefully shopped for a dress. It took him a week to find exactly what he wanted, a week of going into stores he would never normally notice, a week of describing me to salesladies and trying to understand the mysteries of colors men can't even see. It's carefully wrapped now in acid-free tissue paper - love, in ecru satin and antique lace.
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