— Nancy Meyer
Sally’s gown, yellow, strapless under her olive shoulders, satin and shapely. Your stiff blue netting jabs Arthur when he circles your waist.
Filene’s basement bargain, twirling in the gilt ballroom, raking against the girls who bought their dresses with coifed mothers in hushed rooms at Sax. Saleswomen in seamed stockings carried armfuls of silk and organza, zipped them into each one, taking care never to brush a finger against their dewy skin.
You fought for your dress, spied it in a pile, slid under the heavy arm of a lady reeking White Shoulders.Snagged it. Pushed your way out through the panting mass of women, desperation in their armpits, and paid without even trying it on. $20.
Strauss lilts your feet, two three.
Pretty, you feel pretty,
page boy floats, two three,
one two three.
Waltz all night, blur of blue.
Mirrors whirl, on Sally
too. For once
you don’t stumble.