Rose coloured beads, embroidered on the bodice, twinkled in the afternoon sun, the damask rose skirt moulded itself to a plastic dummy’s legs. It was the most stunning dress Petronella had ever seen.
“You’re beautiful,” her face pressed against the store window.
“Twenty-five per cent off in this month’s sale,” preened the dress filling the air with the scent of roses.
“I have to wear black for the next six months.” A beaded tear fell. “Mio padre è morto.” Petronella walked away, stooped by the burden of both losses.
“I hate black,” muttered the dress, its beads now dulled.
“You’re beautiful,” her face pressed against the store window.
“Twenty-five per cent off in this month’s sale,” preened the dress filling the air with the scent of roses.
“I have to wear black for the next six months.” A beaded tear fell. “Mio padre è morto.” Petronella walked away, stooped by the burden of both losses.
“I hate black,” muttered the dress, its beads now dulled.
