The Fashion Cycle

Girl in a changing room in a store in a city in America. A pair of high-waisted, light-wash denim jeans—mom jeans.

Mom laughs because they look like her jeans from the 80s, Girl tells her that that’s the style now, Mom smiles,

says they’re good at keeping everything in, Girl doesn’t say I am too. She tucks a tie-dyed, black tee into the jeans,

sticky against her chest, the screen-printed logo of a band she doesn’t know. Mom says they’re also from the 80s.

Girl can already hear the boy asking her what the lead singer’s dog’s middle name is, feel his fingers spread like web

across the small of her back, scrunching the fabric in his fist like a venus fly trap, but she hangs it on the buy hook anyway.

She tries on a few fitted bodysuits and feels like sinking into a hole in the floor. Mom reaches out to adjust the straps,

and Girl tears away faster than a strip of homemade wax. Mom sighs, well it would look better if you didn’t slouch.

Girl slouches harder, tries not think about her belly bulging over the waistline like a bowl of rising dough.

She layers the t-shirt over the bodysuit and Mom claps, says, I think I wore that exact outfit in high school!

Girl smiles, thumbing the belt loops, wiping the sides of her eyes. Even in changing rooms, things never change.

By Annie Grimes