I stayed facing away, but I felt Cooper walk up behind me.
This seemed like a good moment for a scolding. “You can’t just go around taking off your clothes like that, Cooper.”
“Youtook offyourclothes.”
“In the bathroom. Like a decent person.”
But that’s when Cooper put his hands on my hips to assess the zipper problem.
“Where’d your bra go?” he asked, and I got a flash of what he must be seeing: a long, narrow, unzippedVtracing the naked length of my spine.
What was the question again?
“There’s no room for it,” I answered. “I am squeezed into this dress like a sausage in its casing.”
“Don’t say that to anybody else.”
Then I felt Cooper take ahold of the zipper pull and start trying to work it up. Which took a minute. “You have bad luck with zippers,” he said as he tugged.
“Bad zipper karma,” I agreed.
I had just put my hair up in a bun, and so my neck was totally exposed to the brush and tickle of every breath he took.
Which somehow felt like something I should put a stop to.
Right? This was Cooper!
But I didn’t.
“Is it possible this dress is too tight?” Cooper asked after a while.
“It’s a full size smaller than the smallest size I ever wear,” I confirmed.
“But you want me to zip it, anyway?”
“I do.”
“It’s really pretty snug,” Cooper said doubtfully.
“Just think of it like a corset.”
A funny pause, then: “You don’t want me to do that.”
Before I had time to process whatever energythatwas, Cooper launched a new zipper strategy, and his hands started moving everywhere—waist, rib cage, hips—pressing and tugging as he tried to pull the two zipper sides close enough to slide them together.
Finally, I guess he decided to go down to go up.
He pulled the zipper south a few inches. But then he paused.
“What?” I prompted.
“Are you wearing cotton underpants?” he asked. “With unicorns on them?”
I glanced back. “Aren’t you?”
And then we settled right back into our usual dynamic as Cooper said, “I’m so tempted to give you a wedgie right now.”
I swatted at him. “Don’t. For real.”
