Marion kept the blue dress in the back of the closet, still inside the thin plastic cover from the store.
She had bought it six years earlier for their anniversary dinner. It was not flashy. Just soft blue, with sleeves that made her arms look slimmer and a neckline that made her stand a little straighter.
That night, she had come out of the bedroom and waited near the hall mirror.
Frank was looking for the car keys.
“Ready?” he asked, already patting his pockets.
She told herself he was distracted. Men missed things. Good men missed things. After forty-eight years, a woman learned to make excuses before anyone else had to.
At the restaurant, the waitress said, “That color is beautiful on you.”
Marion smiled too quickly. “Thank you, honey.”
Frank never looked up from the menu.
Now, standing in the closet years later, she touched the sleeve with two fingers. Outside the door, Frank passed by on his way to the kitchen.
“Have you seen my reading glasses?” he called.
Marion looked at the old anniversary photo on the shelf. In that picture, his hand was at the small of her back, and he was looking at her like she had just walked into the room for the first time.
She almost answered, “Yes. And have you seen me?”
Instead she said, “Check by your chair.”
Then she put the dress back where it had always been.
Not because she planned to wear it.
Because part of her still remembered the woman who bought it.
