This is an old idea, and I’m not sure which one is better executed. Opinions?
“I think the red ones first,” she says, the bundle of clothing draped across her forearm shifting slightly left, which is where my eyes go; away from her. “The thighs in the fours are always too tight, but I fear the sixes will slide right off me.” which would indeed be dreadful.
A bell over the door rings as other would be patrons wander in, captivated by the wonderful colors, some of which defy reason. Bright peach pants and Pepto Bismol pink shirts stretched too tight on mannequins, pale white and featureless, tiny heads attached to stiffened torsos, impressively perky B cup breasts. Sleek dimpled lines cut into plastic enticingly lead to pointed hips. I have fallen in love with these aliens before, pubic mounds pressing underneath the latest Spring Fashions. Nothing but temptation after temptation. I resist again, prepared to purge my deviant thoughts later.
“I need the size 4,” her hand rising from the emptiness, over the shutter slatted door of the dressing room (white, always white), offering me the offensively large pants. I take them and wander to the neatly arranged stacks, bright blues, deep greens, a subtle orange.
Nothing like the last time, when she invited me behind the door, blue bra tossed casually aside, her back curving up and away as she buttoned jeans. The mirror opposite showing a movie-like-life representation of her long dark hair hanging forward, her navel sinking back and away, just visible, and I could not stop myself from reaching towards her reflection, like we were always like this, and the heaviness of our shared loss did not weigh heavy over every word, each forbidden touch. She would turn and sit on my lap, her arms loosely on my shoulders, a heavy kiss on my forehead as she pulled me close.