Like Jazz by Heather Blackmore

It had been my experience that the less notice I received, the better. I grabbed the lowest part of the dress and was starting to remove it, when I heard Sarah.
    “Cazz? I’m waiting. Where are you? Are you coming out?”
    I froze, the skirt of the dress at my hips. I called out. “It’s not my style. I’m taking it off.”
    “You’ll do no such thing. Get a grip and come out here.”
    Fuck. I shimmied the dress back in place. “Fine,” I growled, “but I’m not leaving the fitting-room area.” There was a hexagon-shaped section at the center of the fitting rooms with benches and 270-degree mirrors to allow for the kind of show-and-tell I was thinking of, where I wouldn’t have to leave the women-only sanctuary.
    She coaxed me. “No one’s here but me.”
    I undid the lock, opened the door, and stopped within the confines of the common area where Sarah stood to the side. At the sight of me, her eyes widened, her breath caught, and her lips parted slightly as she took me in from head to toe and back. After taking a moment to shake herself free from whatever thought was plaguing her at that moment, she held out her right palm and dipped her head, indicating that I should move into the center of the mirrored space. I did.
    “Stop slouching and stand up straight.”
    I took a deep breath and assumed a fake smile as I copped a whole lot of attitude, squared my shoulders, stuck out my chest, and twirled around the way I imagined a fashion model would. I gestured with my hands that she should behold the outfit from top to bottom. “Better?” I asked sarcastically.
    A slow smile played across her face and I assumed she was approving of my ability to follow direction. “Well? What do you think?” she asked.
    “What do I think ?” I mocked her. “I think I look ridiculous. Am I done?”
    “You think you look ridiculous ? You can’t be serious.”
    “Maybe not ridiculous. Just…” I shrugged, closed my eyes, and shook my head.
    At that moment, two attractive thirty-something blondes entered the fitting-room area, each with armfuls of clothes to try on. I opened my eyes at the sound of their footsteps, and as they passed the show-and-tell section, they both stopped and surveyed me. “Wow,” one of them said. “Hot damn,” said the other. “That dress is incredible on you,” said the first. “Whatever it costs,” said the second, “buy it. You look hot.” “Truly,” said the first, nodding in agreement. “Truly,” she repeated. They both turned and headed down one of the short halls to their fitting rooms.
    I studied the ceiling.
    “You’re excused.”
    I turned my eyes to Sarah, wondering if I’d correctly recognized the smug tone in her voice. She had a wicked, self-righteous grin on her face, as if she’d won round one of whatever duel we were squaring off to fight. I darted into my fitting room and, locking the door behind me, heard her voice through the wooden slats. “Wait for me right here. I’m going to want your opinion.” Greatly relieved to have my own jeans and polo shirt back on, I sat on one of the two benches in the common area.
    A few minutes later, Sarah entered the mirrored hexagon room where I waited. God. Could she be any more beautiful? She wore a strapless, white stretch-taffeta dress with a high waist and a slim skirt with a flared hem at the ankle. Even with bare feet, she walked tall, keeping her back and neck straight, her bearing regal but unpretentious. I felt slightly light-headed and my mouth went dry. A sharp pang, like hunger, arose in my abdomen, though I’d eaten only a few hours earlier.
    “Not bad,” she said, twirling around to assess herself from various angles. She flicked her eyes in my direction and gave me a tantalizing smile. “Cazz, stop staring and close your mouth.”
    Helplessly, I obeyed.
    “Well?”
    “Not bad,” I agreed, barely managing to choke out the words and thinking it was the biggest understatement of my life to that