Can I Hope You Think I’m Sexy, Part VII of Heart of Christmas

Because Christmas has passed I’m dispensing with the Christmas music and going a little more tongue-in-cheek, because…why not?

To review the previous installments because the last was posted on December 22 (where has time gone?), you can visit here.

Thanks for your support! 🙂 And I apologize for the delay. I had to go back and read what I’d written. 😉

Can I Hope You Think I’m Sexy

 

Spotify had static. Or maybe that white noise was in his head. Adam didn’t know. Not anymore.

He’d let Tammy drag him to the mall to shop for new clothes, which was kind of ridiculous considering that all of his clothes were perfectly serviceable and comfortable. That word again. Comfortable. He could hear Nick snort. So? He liked being comfortable. Life was too short to wear suits and ties all the time. This wasn’t the 1950’s.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a suit, maybe to his great Aunt’s funeral. No, it was when he had to go to court because of the Self-Reliants stealing one of his songs. It had been one that he’d previewed at an open mic before the band, Elton Mouse had put it on Billboard’s Top 100. That had not been pleasant.

He’d said “no” when Tammy dragged him into a hair stylist who insisted that he needed a texture crop. He thought a crop was used in horse riding. Either way. No. Just no.

The stylist made his unruly waves neat and rubbed her fingers over his growing scruff with approval. “Sexy.” Then she unexpectedly trimmed his eyebrows before he could react. When she showed tweezers to remove the beginnings of a unibrow, he said: “What the hell.” In for a dime, in for a dollar.

Here he was dressed in a green plaid flannel, blue jeans that he could swear were cutting off circulation to his important parts, and dock shoes. Dock shoes. Was there any more significant sign that he was out of his element? The irony was he felt unbalanced without his New Balances.

He felt like an idiot as he sucked in a deep breath and then opened the door to O’Connor’s. The grand entrance. Was this how women felt? He didn’t think so. He wasn’t exactly happy nor anticipating anything other than some ridiculing.

It was early. Mary was working. Hopefully she’d notice his clothes before he sat down. Otherwise, what was the point?

He didn’t see her. He slowed his steps and looked around, realizing that he looked like a 90-year old navigating the landscape. All of this for a woman. But not any woman. Mary. The one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It was now or never. Damn, he could almost hear Elvis Presley.

Maybe it was because he was practically standing still looking somewhat bewildered that Mary appeared, not quite looking at his face. “You can sit anywhere. We’ll find you,” she said, smiling.

He watched her pass by and then stop. Her tray slamming against her hip as she turned, eyes wide.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

Her cheeks grew red as she gazed at him. Her mouth worked slowly until she closed it firmly. “You look different.”

“Do I? Hadn’t noticed.” He hoped he wasn’t struck by lightning because that would have surely done it.

Her eyes wandered over his hair, his face, his clothes. Now he knew how women felt when a man did this once over to them. He was gratified and objectified all at once.

He didn’t wait for her to say anything. He just strode to the bar hoping that she was looking at his ass. At least that would make these tight-and-uncomfortable-as-hell jeans worth the while. Man, had aliens taken over his brain?

 

end 1/13/2018

Sascha Darlington

Advertisements

6 thoughts on “Can I Hope You Think I’m Sexy, Part VII of Heart of Christmas

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s