I found myself in the same scenario as I had the last time; minutes before I was supposed to be gathered up to leave, staring at myself in the mirror in an outfit I didn't feel comfortable in but I knew not matter what I'd need up leaving the house in.
It was black. Of course it was black. Black cropped mock neck long sleeve. Black mini skirt. Black tights. Black ankle boots. Black shoulder bag.
Lincoln said it was a nice place, and in my mind, a nice place always registered best as lots of black.
Most of the time the only color I wore was my red hair. It was tied messily up and out of my face, a few strands falling out, framing my face. I never wore much makeup, so my freckled cheeks always shone through. Other than that, some liner and mascara really sealed it. I wasn't very extravagant person, keeping everything very minimal. I just wanted to be as least eye catching as possible everywhere I went.
But tonight was different. Tonight, Lincoln was there. My cheeks burned at the very idea that my legs were completely exposed and my clothes stuck to me like a wet suit because he would see me. This shift in personality was terrifying. I was dressing myself for a man. A man. Never in a million years would I have seen myself here, in this situation. I wanted him to see me.
No, a lie. I hated being noticed. I hated drawing attention to myself.
Then why are you wearing this?
As I stood humming and hawing, trying to shuffle through my wardrobed for something better, I realized the extent of my belongings didn't get much fancier or club appropriate than this. But still, if my lift wasn't here, I'd panic up until the last possible second over what to wear.
Almost to my relief, a knock at the door echoed throughout the house. I scrambled to find a jacket I could wrap up in. I grabbed a a grey petty coat from my closet, swinging it on as I shoved my feet into my boots. All this time to get ready, and it was a mad dash when he's waiting at the door.
I ran through the corridor, fixing my hair and face before breathing deeply, reaching for the lock and doorknob, opening to to be greeted by a tall dark figure. My heart pounded as he turned to face me as I pulled the door inward. A smiled stretched across his face as he looked at me, his gaze dropping.
"Too little or too much?" I asked, but he simply stared.
He was sporting his black jacket, of course, and dressed down in what would seem to be all black. I immediately felt comfort knowing I wasn't the only had thought this way about dressing up.
He didn't try to hide the way his eyes travelled down my body. They lingered on my bare legs a while before snapping back up and looking into my eyes. I felt like I might fall over.
"It's perfect," he said. I blushed, feeling self-conscious.
I couldn't decide if I felt too showy or if I actually felt pretty. It was nonexistent for me to be on the receiving end of a male gaze. It was strange. For what it was worth, I was quite covered up, wearing a high neck long sleeve as I most commonly did. The skirt was rather daring for me. I never really opted for, well, not mom jeans. I was always too worried about feeling to exposed when wearing a skirt out to a club. It seemed dangerous, but then I guess that has a lot to say about the world we lived in.
He kept smiling at me. I felt scarlet under his stare, but I could tell he was enjoying the effect he had over me. And then Shay's words forced their way into my head.
Men always expect sex.
No. I refused to believe that. That couldn't be true. Not him.
But what did I know. I couldn't be sure. Was he really going the extra mile just to eventually get the opportunity to undress me and have me. And then leave? Would a man really do such a thing.
