Across the street from where I work is a bridal and formal wear dress shop. The owner fills the windows with dresses on full-size mannequins, tastefully displaying just a small selection of what she has inside. While working, we watch the dresses through our own plate-glass windows, watching as new ones are put up and then taken down as they are sold.

There was one dress, a pink one, that we all liked.

The dress was reminiscent of formal dresses from the 1950′s, maybe, with a full-length skirt made of ruffles and a bodice with satin straps and a slight sweetheart neckline. Compared to many of the other dresses, with their almost violent colors and risqué cut, it seemed out of place. It was sweet and lovely and looked old-fashioned. It was feminine and soft instead of aggressive and overt.

“That dress is still there,” I’d say each morning, watching as the other dresses around it were sold and replaced quickly, sometimes all within the same day.

Dress after dress was sold, dresses of hot pink and bright orange and tropical green, dresses meant to hug the figure and reveal as much as they could without the wearer getting kicked out of the prom.

The pink dress stayed unsold for weeks. For some reason, that made me happy.

On Monday, I arrived to work and I noticed right away that the pink dress had been replaced by some hot pink number with a plunging neckline and shiny rhinestones at the waist. While I was glad that someone finally had the good taste to grab that dress, I was a little disappointed.

I had almost come to think of it as mine.