-i Frivolous Dress Order The Meal- 〈Validated × METHOD〉

By A. E. Stedman

So yes: I frivolous dress order the meal.

But my dress had other plans.

Not a typo. A manifesto.

Wear something foolish tonight. Let the sleeves decide. And when the waiter asks who’s having the crème brûlée, let the hemline answer. -I frivolous dress order the meal-

Last Tuesday, I walked into a restaurant wearing a dress that had no business making decisions. It was sage green, backless, with a skirt that started its sentence somewhere around my ribs and finished with a whisper just above the knee. A frivolous dress. The kind you buy after one glass of Sancerre, thinking, When? and the dress answers, Tonight.

Let me explain.

I sat down across from someone who had already decided what we would eat. He had the menu in his hands—the way men do, as if it were a treasure map and they the only cartographers. “The octopus,” he began, “is excellent here.”