It takes a second for his eyes to unglue themselves from the screen, his gaze seeming to move through water as he glances up at me. Then his eyebrows knit together, his expression a canvas of mingled horror and disgust in mild shades of disbelief.
“Nu-uh…”
I can’t help but start laughing.
“Is that a plaid tee-shirt dress? Where do you even find this stuff? Why did you change out of the black dress?”
“Just wanted to,” I say teasingly, pushing my hair back. “Why? Why are you so stuck on the black one anyway?”
He manages to keep his expression impassive and disinterested, as he says flatly, “When you only have two tolerable dresses in your entire wardrobe, I think it’s only natural for me to try to mitigate the suffering you inflict on my eyes.”
Hmm.
Not even the faintest vestige of embarrassment, color, or discomfiture shows on his face, and for some strange reason that bugs me - like an insistent light drizzle drumming on my psyche at 100 bpm.
What is with you, you little creep?
Taking the scrunchie off my wrist, I pile my hair up onto the top of my head and adjust the sleeve of the dress.
“That’s better.” I smirk, “My hair got in the way of the embroidery. Check it out, there are these little flowers around the sleeves.”
His mouth opens with an expression that reminds me of a muppet, if a muppet could be gorgeous, looking up at the ceiling like he’s searching for divine intervention.
“I know you’re doing this on purpose,” he raises his eyebrows, pressing against his temples with both fingers, “I know you’re doing this just because you KNOW it’ll make me angry.”
“Why on earth would it make you angry?” I laugh, shoving his shoulder as I plop down on the couch beside him. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head simultaneously.
“Okay, the dress itself doesn’t make me angry. You IN that dress sends me into a blind rage.”
But even as he says those words it happens - a fraction of a flash in his eyes so suppressed it seems far away, but I recognize it - latch onto it ever so delicately - like I’m catching a firefly- afraid to destroy it, pretending I don’t see…
“Well if it’s a blind rage then you’re fine cuz you don’t have to see it.”
“I enjoy being able to see, thank you,” he says flatly, annoyingly pushing against my forehead with one finger like I remember doing to Andrew ten thousand and one times. “It’s less of a ‘blind rage’ and more of a blinded-by-the-nightmare-that-is-that-dress rage. I would almost literally pay money to have you wear anything but that…”
He grows silent suddenly as I watch the realization dawn on him.
“Wait a minute! We’re going on a date! Eres loca?!!! You meant to go out in public in that abomination?”
“What a drama king!” I scoff, “You act like I grew a beard or turned into a werewolf or something. Of all the crimes that could be committed, wearing a plaid dress is not one.”
“Okay, but inciting a panic is one,” he scolds, holding his hands out like he’s praying. “I can’t let you go outside like that and give some innocent old person a seizure.”
