The next evening, Julian's mother handed me two tickets for the cinema.
"Go tonight," she said. "Before he leaves."
I put on the red dress Julian's parents had bought me for the wedding. The fabric scratched my neck, and the color was too loud.
The theater lobby was crowded. I felt Julian stiffen beside me the moment we walked through the double doors.
"Julian? Is that you?"
A woman in a cream-colored coat walked toward us. She had a perfect blonde bob and smelled like expensive soap. Genevieve.
"Genevieve," Julian said. His posture changed. He stood taller. "I didn't think you'd be back from New York yet."
"The ballet ended early," she said. Her eyes slid over to me. She took in the red dress, the scuffed shoes. "And who is this? Your housekeeper?"
I looked down at my hands. The coal dust from the books was still caught under my nails.
"This is Flora," Julian said. His voice was tight. "My wife."
Genevieve's smile stayed exactly where it was. "Oh. I always thought you'd marry someone... academic. She's very rustic."
Julian looked at the carpet. "We should go, Genevieve. The movie is starting."
We drove home in silence. When we got to the bedroom, I reached for the zipper on the red dress.
"Don't wear that again," Julian said.
"Why?" I asked.
"It doesn't suit you." He picked up his towel and went to the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror. My hair was frizzy, my skin rough. I took the dress off, folded it into a small square, and pushed it to the bottom of my trunk. I never put it on again.