“Stockholm syndrome,” I say to myself as I examine one of the dresses. “That’s all it is. Perfectly natural. Just like coming on a strange, evil man’s cock. Don’t be too hard on yourself, Irene.”

Uh huh. Sure.

The dress is well-made, soft and flowy, and would probably look incredible on someone not me. But I try it on anyway. In fact, I try on everything while I’m alone for the rest of the afternoon, and by the time I’m finished, I’m pretty sure I can’t wear any of it. I’m not good at making decisions anyway, but when it comes to something like this, I’m hopeless.

“The red one,”...