She tried to listen for their reaction as she told them what he had done, her voice echoing, but blood was pounding in her ears, and the bones of her dress creaked and groaned across the speakers, as if in reproach. She was raising a toast—“To us”—lifting her glass higher and higher, when she felt her dress give, a sick ripping snagging through the speakers. It was the seams, not even the buttons, she thought, and in a moment of wild hilarity she laughed out loud at the thought of herself. What must this look like? What would Margot say? Briefly, she imagined the story, how Margot would laugh,
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Wow this metaphor sure is subtle
