"Which one?" Kay asks as she holds up two dresses.

I mumble something that's supposed to sound like "I don't know," around the potato chip covered in ranch dip that I just shoved in my mouth with a cursory glance at her picks before my eyes settle back on the bridal magazine in my lap.

"Kim! You're supposed to be helping me here," Kay whines-- a little more dramatically than is strictly necessary if you ask me.

Of course, no one did ask me, and she's right, I'm supposed to be helping.

With a sigh that I hope doesn't show my lack of interest, I close the magazine and set it aside. I pull the reading glasses off my face and give my friend the full attention she deserves.

Kay is holding a standard little black dress in her left hand and a hot pepper red number in her right. Both of them are short at the hem and long in the neckline and made of Spandex so, on the hangers, they look like they're about 40 sizes too small for a human being.

Exactly Kay's style.

"Don't you have anything less...slutty?" I blurt it out before really thinking about it first.

I don't mean anything insulting by it, but the girl is expecting to come home with an engagement ring on her finger for crying out loud. She's not headed out to the clubs to drag a stranger home for the night.

"You don't think this is good?" She pouts a little as she holds the black one up closer to her.

I know she thinks black is classic, and maybe it is, but I can't help but eye the slit up the thigh of its already micro length and the neckline that's so low there's a ribbon criss-crossing it that probably had to be added for sheer structural integrity, and think there's a difference between "classic" and "classy."

The dress is hot, that's not the problem, and I'm sure it looks like smooth sin stretched across my bestie's size 2, 5 foot 8 inch, 34 double D frame.

Not that I'm jealous, mind you.

OK, maybe a little bit.

I shake my head slowly back and forth and try not to laugh at how disappointed she looks.

"This is why I need you here," she exchanges the pout for a bright grin in a millisecond, drops both dresses on the bed and shuffles through her closet some more, "I have no idea how to dress like a plain Jane."

I slide my glasses back on my face and reach for another one of the bridal magazines from the stack next to me, choosing to ignore any possible negative interpretation of her flippant comment.

Kay and I have been friends for years. I know she wasn't trying to insult me. In fact, in her own Kay way, that ego-crushing comment was a compliment.

"Where's the dress you wore to the office party last year?" I ask.

It was a nice dress, still a little revealing but then, a potato sack would look revealing wrapped around Kay's bod, but it looked more Victoria's Secret and less Playboy photo shoot.

"I sold it," Kay tells her closet as I watch her hand sliding hangers along the pole, "it really wasn't me."

"Here, let me look." My glasses land on top of the magazine that I drop back on Kay's vanity as I get out of my chair and push her to the side so I can rifle through her closet. "I know you have something in here," I tease, "you have to wear something when you visit your grandmother."

It's payback for the "plain Jane" comment and I get a pained groan that curls my lips into a triumphant grin as I hear Kay flop backwards onto her bed behind me.

A glimpse of dark blue catches my eye and I pull out what appears to be a brand new dress.

"What about this one?" I turn and hold it up so Kay can see what I'm talking about.

"Ugh," she props herself up on her elbows and rolls her eyes, "really?"

"Yeah, really," I toss the dress down on top of her, "you wanted me to help you pick out something classy," I tell her, "but you don't like anything I suggest."

I give up. It's a half-hearted tantrum, but then, it's been a half-hearted attempt at helping her. I'm just not that invested in her dilemma.

Stomping across the room I fall back into the chair I was sitting in with the kind of drama that Kay appreciates.

"Wear one of your stripper dresses, Kay," I tell her, picking up the stack of magazines and making a point not to look at her, "he doesn't give a fuck what you wear as long his ring is part of the ensemble."

"So you really think this one, huh?" Kay's up and standing in front of her mirror, holding the dress I threw at her like she's never seen it before.

It's a nice dress, some sort of satiny stuff that reflects the light in a much brighter shade of bluish purple than the nearly midnight navy it appears to be. It's still fitted, but it's nicely tailored with clean lines and a hemline that'll hit her just above the knee as opposed to just below the vaj.

It says "gallery opening," not "pole dancing amateur night."

Not that Brent cares.

Kay's boyfriend-- soon to be fiance-- has been smitten with her since day one. Normally, I'd say "who could blame him" because, of course, every guy is smitten with Kay from the moment they see her.

Brent, however, didn't see Kay before he met her. They met through a service, some sort of match maker that specializes in modern day arranged marriages.

Kay found it because she was sick of guys who were only into her for her looks. Not that she tries hard to hide her looks, but then if I looked like Kay, you'd have to pay me to keep my clothes on.

They knew they were getting married before they even met.

Tonight is just Brent's way of making it official.

Keeping my eyes down so Kay can't tell I'm watching her through the mirrored closet doors, I thumb through the pages of yet another bridal magazine and stifle a sigh.

My bestie might try my patience sometimes, but she is my best friend. And I'm happy for her.

Really.

Like, really really happy for her.

"Maybe with those silver shoes?" I hear her musing mostly to herself.

OK, I'd go with the nude pumps that I know she has stashed in the back corner of her shoe rack, but I have to let Kay be Kay. The silver heels will go with the dress well enough, I guess. At least she won't look like a hooker when every eye in the place is watching Brent slide a rock the size of Gibraltar onto her finger later tonight.

Not that I'm jealous, mind you.

I flip the page in the magazine and and feel my nose twitch with the effort not to tear up just a little as I look at the gorgeous dress on the stunning model in the ad under my fingers.

Nope. Not jealous. Just happy for my friend.

I swear.