The closet door creaked open, revealing a battlefield of clothes. Dresses of all colors and styles hung in an organized chaos.
Kimberly rummaged through the racks, pulling out one item after another, discarding them with a frustrated sigh.
Tonight was her "dinner date" with Nicholas, a term she used with air quotes in her mind. This whole dinner date with Nicholas felt like a charade. The whole situation felt contrived, a performance more than anything else.
Anything too fancy wouldn't do. It would scream "trying too hard," and she loathed that.
Finally, she settled on a simple black knee-length sheath dress that clung comfortably to her curves. It wasn't flashy, it didn't scream "look at me," it just… existed. Perfect.
She threw on a pair of heels, the kind that gave her height without compromising on comfort, and a quick dab of mascara and a swipe of lip gloss, finished the look. She was ready – or rather, not-ready.
