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"(F)ashion must have a cultural meaning and should define one's identity." -Barge Ramos

It was the closest thing to sex I could experience in SoHo: a sex shop. Ate P. and I were curating the different toys for sale when I got a call from C.: she was coming from her book club, could we meet outside the theater, instead of her place?

For the movie premiere, C. and I had agreed to dress like the characters: I decided to wear jeans, a gingham shirt, and a regimental tie, urban wear for the tropics. Ate P. left the shop to check if her husband had already arrived in the restaurant, leaving me to look for a hidden door in the basement mentioned in my guidebook.

"OK, L b waiting in Big Chill UES," I texted back, while trying on a Jay Kos blazer that seemed to have been left behind. I then made a brief escape through the hole (I would return the blazer later that night).

When I was in UPIS, first grade, I had wanted to be an actor- I joined different school plays through the years, finding that I understood reality better by playing roles. It was the same that night: making believe allowed me to have a better understanding of C.'s relationships with her admirers. She's a princess, I thought. If they could see that, they wouldn't be so intimidated.

If I made the evening perfect for the princess, its magic would envelop her ever after.

We enjoyed the movie and, afterwards, as we walked to a bar to drink cosmos and toast women's empowerment, C. asked about the flowers inside the footlong hotdog bag- a deconstructed bouquet- I had given her.

"Did you notice the Eiffel Tower bag of Carrie in the movie?" I asked. "She has the Eiffel Tower and you have..."

C.'s face lit up. We had become part of the film- or did the film become part of us? Either way, she was ready to face her Mr. Big.

(I looked at my watch- I was ready to take off the warm blazer.)