The infant, barely able to walk, in regulation floppy hat and navy blue overalls, pauses in his toddling headlong rush and pivots like an NBA guard to press his chubby little hands against the display window of the bridal shop.
The mannequins tower above him, in taffeta and sequins, in lace and straps and disdainful, plastic expressions, and he stares up at them. His face is perfectly slack in the way that only babies and the deeply stoned can pull off when they are transfixed by something that has totally blown their minds,
His mother, no makeup, glasses, hair a wild tangle, looks down at him with a curious expression, and asks, "Do you like the pretty dresses?"
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