Vincent

“You look fine, my dear.”

Vincent watches as you scrutinize your dress in the shabby department store mirror, stubbing his cigarette in the provided tray only to fish for another in his jacket. The dress you’ve donned now—a delicately printed boat-neck job—looks especially flattering to Vincent, although you don’t seem to think so. Or perhaps your husband just wants to escape the confines of this dressing room and hit up that diner the two of you originally planned to visit. Oh, but (he recalls your shameless plea, how you practically dragged him into the boutique by his cuff links) you just had to have that dress.

With a languid look at his wrist watch and a bored glance back at the drab ceiling, Vincent sighs at the ebbing hum of “Candy” by a certain Johnny-something-or-other playing faintly on the overhead radio for the umpteenth time this week. But your twirl in the mirror brings the smile back to his face and suddenly Vincent wishes he could spin you by your shoulders in that dress— take you out on the town and show you off.