Right before we broke up, my boyfriend gave me a sweater for my birthday. It was very beautiful, made of forest green wool. 

I told him thanks, and closed the box. 

No, no, he said, try it on. 

Okay, I said. I took it out of the box. It looks too small for me, I said (you should know that my body is on the large side).

No, he said, try it on. I’m sure it will fit. 

I pulled it on over my tee shirt and stretched out my arms into it. The fabric was very soft and inviting.

Wow, he said. You look great! Take a look in the mirror. 

I looked in the mirror. It was my face, but someone else’s torso. The sweater was low-cut and clung to me. It made me look like a mid-century movie star, with amazing decolletage (somehow, my tee shirt didn’t show at all). I didn’t know whether it was how I looked or the tightness of the sweater that took my breath away.

You can get the skirt that goes with it, he said, putting his hand on my waist.

I looked at the mirror at Marilyn Monroe. I looked at Anita Ekberg and Raquel Welch. I took off the sweater, folded it neatly, and put it into the box.

No, thanks, I said. Please leave now.