Dream On: A Rom Com

The Flirt

LUCY

"These are rather clingy," snorts Deon, staring at his thighs in the fitted trousers. He squats and bounces a few times, testing the flexibility of the material.

"Oh, don't we look snazzy," says Steve, the Macy's salesman who helped me pick from the hordes of rounders and confusion of brands. He eyes me over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Is he flirting? I could use the kind of lift that a casual playful moment with an appealing stranger affords. Besides, Steve is cute. He wears the cousin to Deon's trousers in a subtle check and a yellow-gold shirt that picks up the gold flecks in his hair.

We've trekked out to the mall in Meriden in the late afternoon because Deon begged me to take him shopping. Claiming his pants are all worn out and look dated. Old man pants.

"Snazzy, huh?" Deon's expression is tight, but it's clear he's pleased and doesn't want to admit it. Might call too much attention to himself. "Are they supposed to be this clingy?" Deon stares in the mirror at his thighs in the fitted trousers.

"The crotch in that particular trouser is perfectly cut," Steve assures him. "Just enough roominess, if you know what I mean, and he gives me a look I can't misinterpret. Half-closed eyes, as if we've got a secret. "The material is supple," Steve adds. His gazes takes in my electric blue skirt and red top.

"Supple's what I'm after," says Deon, oblivious to the looks we're exchanging. He's energetic and hangover-free, whereas the day after our outing to Corner Bar, my hangover is exactly that. Hanging. Over.

I grab one of the shirts Steve has hung on the rack for Deon to try on, a spike of flirt-fueled adrenalin hitting me.

"Stop whinging." Since Deon is immune to my charms no matter what I wear, the contrast with Steve is a novelty. Following me with his eyes as he folds and tidies, lugs over shirts and trousers for my approval. He stands so close at one point, I tilt away. I wonder if Deon will notice.

"Whinging? Is that British for whining?" Deon sneers in a mock-British accent.

I sneak another look at those trousers. Slim leg, definitely hip. Admit it, he's hot.

"We can't have whinging in front of your lovely girlfriend, can we?" Steve pipes up in the best British accent I've heard in months. "It's simply not done." Deon's head snaps around like he's in a scene from The Exorcist. I'm open-mouthed, waiting for Deon to deny my status as his girlfriend, but he has no retort. His expression is more like he's gotten a jolt from a stun gun.

"London accent?" Of course I haven't the foggiest about discrete British accents, but this is another chance to rib Deon. "Well done. Are you an actor?"

"We have some casual shirts you can pair with those trousers," Steve says, a great cover up to an awkward moment. He's a few inches from me, his breath on my neck.

"Get two pair," and my voice travels up and down in an effort to cover my nervousness. "One gray, one camel. No, get three pair." I turn toward Steve, "A good fit is everything, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely."

I look back at Deon as I follow Steve out of the dressing room. He didn't answer my question and I'm curious.

He stops at a stack of dress shirts. The display is rife with color, from butter-yellow to red, and I wonder about the target audience for such statement shirts.

"Tangerine? Or is that way too off the grid, shall I say, for your gentleman?" The London accent is back in full swing.

"He loves bright colors." In fact, Deon is known for pairing crazy color combos. He's the unabashed fearless fashion leader for the whole district.