I’m trying on swimsuits in the Macy’s dressing room. Though not usually the most encouraging of activities for young women with real bodies, I’m feeling pretty fabulous thanks to the adventurous evening I had the night before involving floggers and an open mind.
The sales associate has been helping me with sizes. She’s back now with the suit I want, but in a color I detest.
“Sorry, hon, it’s all we got left. Can I take some of that back for ya?”
I leave the door open as I gather the remaining suits.
As I’m doing so, I guess she seizes the opportunity to check out how well the one I’m still wearing fits. I catch her looking at me in the triple mirrors and turn to face her. Her expression is odd, and I wonder if I have the suit on backwards or if the florescent lights are making my already pale skin appear translucent.
Without hesitation, she blurts, “Girl, your ass is bruised!”
Mortified, I say lamely, “I, ah, must have fallen.”
She gives me a knowing look, mutters something, and walks away.