didn’t you agree that whatever I say goes?”
“Yeah, but …” Len squints at the pants. “No way.”
“Look, this is my job. I need to see if they’re fit for The Real Deal,” I say, trying to sound like this is official business. I point to a pair of racks of off-season coats. “You can change back there.”
“Do you ever try stuff on?”
“Sometimes,” I say, turning my back to give him privacy and so he can’t see that I’m lying. For extra modesty, I close my eyes while I wait.
“Ahem.”
I turn around. Len is standing there wearing the pants, which, surprisingly, fit him great. I guess that’s the answer to the question of who should wear fringed suede pants: people who don’t have asses.
“Howdy,” I say.
“Okay, fine,” he says. He rotates clumsily in place for my benefit. “Laugh it up.”
“I’m not,” I tell him. “Seriously, you look good.”
“Oh, yeah?” He looks me right in the eye.
“Yeah,” I say.
“So this is fun for you?”
“I guess so … yeah.”
“Okay, then,” he says, returning to where we dumped out the bag and digging through the contents.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls out something long and shiny and holds it up.
“Your turn,” he says.
This is ridiculous.
I don’t have to do this.
I should just tell him to leave.
There’s no way I’m going through with this.
“Veronica?”
I poke my head out from behind the rack. “Look, forget it. It doesn’t fit, okay?”
“Let me see.”
“I told you, forget it.”
“I won’t laugh. I promise.”
The dress Len selected is a floor-length red satin sheath. In it, I feel—and probably look—like an overstuffed sausage. And that’s without even getting it zipped up. I take a deep breath and try the zipper again. It moves a millimeter and bites me.
Fuck
.
“Veronica, come on out. There’s no one here. Except me, and I’m wearing chaps, I think.”
I laugh and the zipper retreats some more, so my whole back hangs out. Then I take one more deep breath and grab a burgundy smoking jacket off the rack I’m crouching behind. I belt it tightly around me, then I emerge.
“Those are not chaps,” I explain. “Chaps are worn over pants.”
“Let me see,” he says.
“No,” I tell him, biting my lip, but he’s watching my eyes, not my mouth. Slowly, he comes up to me and undoes the silk rope belt.
I know I could stop him with a look. Or a touch.
But I don’t. I look down and see his hands spreading the lapels and exposing the tight, shiny, bulging front of the gown. Instinctively, I jump when I feel the slightly clammy touch of his hands as they make it to my lower back, where the gown gapes open like a canyon. I feel my body tense up as his hands travel up my back, exploring the soft, squishy terrain. I brace myself for the laugh that I know is coming any moment.
He lets out a long breath.
I look up at him, narrowing my eyes protectively.
His bangs swing forward as he leans in and closes his eyes and I realize a second before it happens—
Oh my God oh my God oh my God
shit yikes The Nail oh my G—
—that he’s going to kiss me.
There’s this sudden rush in my chest, which I assume isbecause, even with the dress unzipped, it is cutting off my circulation, and also, between my legs, there’s a warmth, sort of, and my mind of course is racing, racing. My thoughts are still screaming,
Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God!
This is so weird
.
The Nail is kissing me
.
Holy shit. The Nail
.
And how much weirder is it that I kind of don’t want to make him stop?
I kind of maybe even want to kiss him back.
I somehow manage to keep the freaking-out in my head.
And my lips sort of unfreeze and start to move against his in a way that I hope does not seem robotic and weird.
I want to lift my arms because I’ve seen that in movies and it feels right to do that, and I also really, really want to touch his hair to see if it is as soft as I’ve always suspected, even
“Yeah, but …” Len squints at the pants. “No way.”
“Look, this is my job. I need to see if they’re fit for The Real Deal,” I say, trying to sound like this is official business. I point to a pair of racks of off-season coats. “You can change back there.”
“Do you ever try stuff on?”
“Sometimes,” I say, turning my back to give him privacy and so he can’t see that I’m lying. For extra modesty, I close my eyes while I wait.
“Ahem.”
I turn around. Len is standing there wearing the pants, which, surprisingly, fit him great. I guess that’s the answer to the question of who should wear fringed suede pants: people who don’t have asses.
“Howdy,” I say.
“Okay, fine,” he says. He rotates clumsily in place for my benefit. “Laugh it up.”
“I’m not,” I tell him. “Seriously, you look good.”
“Oh, yeah?” He looks me right in the eye.
“Yeah,” I say.
“So this is fun for you?”
“I guess so … yeah.”
“Okay, then,” he says, returning to where we dumped out the bag and digging through the contents.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls out something long and shiny and holds it up.
“Your turn,” he says.
This is ridiculous.
I don’t have to do this.
I should just tell him to leave.
There’s no way I’m going through with this.
“Veronica?”
I poke my head out from behind the rack. “Look, forget it. It doesn’t fit, okay?”
“Let me see.”
“I told you, forget it.”
“I won’t laugh. I promise.”
The dress Len selected is a floor-length red satin sheath. In it, I feel—and probably look—like an overstuffed sausage. And that’s without even getting it zipped up. I take a deep breath and try the zipper again. It moves a millimeter and bites me.
Fuck
.
“Veronica, come on out. There’s no one here. Except me, and I’m wearing chaps, I think.”
I laugh and the zipper retreats some more, so my whole back hangs out. Then I take one more deep breath and grab a burgundy smoking jacket off the rack I’m crouching behind. I belt it tightly around me, then I emerge.
“Those are not chaps,” I explain. “Chaps are worn over pants.”
“Let me see,” he says.
“No,” I tell him, biting my lip, but he’s watching my eyes, not my mouth. Slowly, he comes up to me and undoes the silk rope belt.
I know I could stop him with a look. Or a touch.
But I don’t. I look down and see his hands spreading the lapels and exposing the tight, shiny, bulging front of the gown. Instinctively, I jump when I feel the slightly clammy touch of his hands as they make it to my lower back, where the gown gapes open like a canyon. I feel my body tense up as his hands travel up my back, exploring the soft, squishy terrain. I brace myself for the laugh that I know is coming any moment.
He lets out a long breath.
I look up at him, narrowing my eyes protectively.
His bangs swing forward as he leans in and closes his eyes and I realize a second before it happens—
Oh my God oh my God oh my God
shit yikes The Nail oh my G—
—that he’s going to kiss me.
There’s this sudden rush in my chest, which I assume isbecause, even with the dress unzipped, it is cutting off my circulation, and also, between my legs, there’s a warmth, sort of, and my mind of course is racing, racing. My thoughts are still screaming,
Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God!
This is so weird
.
The Nail is kissing me
.
Holy shit. The Nail
.
And how much weirder is it that I kind of don’t want to make him stop?
I kind of maybe even want to kiss him back.
I somehow manage to keep the freaking-out in my head.
And my lips sort of unfreeze and start to move against his in a way that I hope does not seem robotic and weird.
I want to lift my arms because I’ve seen that in movies and it feels right to do that, and I also really, really want to touch his hair to see if it is as soft as I’ve always suspected, even
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