It's something like eight-thirty in the evening and I'm completely beguiled by his voice over the phone--it's fast, and there's a flighty procession of thoughts that he spills out relentlessly, sounding out of time or out of breath, I can't tell. He's swiftly charming, talking business and deals and displaying his acute intellect that I haven't heard in years.
I hang up the phone, promising I'll be at his house in thirty or forty-five minutes.
I turn to the clothes in my closet, the vast majority of which I can't fit into. I keep the small jeans and tight shirts like fair won prizes.
I have nothing to wear, and the shirt I have on shows spots of sweat and smeared make up. All of my nice shirts are in the laundry--I wore them first for school.
I'm left with one causal long-sleeved sweater, and I decide to keep my jeans because, of course, I'm not having sex or undressing at all tonight. I promptly cover my sweater with a University sweat-shirt so my figure is almost completely hidden.
I freshen up my make up and re-comb my hair back into a short ponytail.
I have been ruminating about the moment he recognizes me in the door--me with shorter hair and glasses and, of course, the added weight.
Will I see something in his eyes like a twitch of rejection?
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