When the dress left my head, I could see him again. He looked in my eyes, his hazel ones so captivating. So open. He was letting me see him, the real him. And I was letting him see me. Stretch marks. Cellulite. My apron belly and my thighs that rubbed together and my breasts that strained against my size G bra. It was me. All of me. But he didn’t look away or step back. Instead, he kissed me.
