Blind hearts-ManxMan-boyxboy

Jobs and Dresses

A dress, Susan said. No lace, no frills, no body bags. The wrap dress looks ok, what do you think? Hmm nice, will keep that in mind. Natural fibers are nice, linen cool, silk best. I need to rest for a bit. What exactly would you doing in this software engineering job you got? We should definitely get you more silk ties. Why do malls have to be such igloos? Maybe I should get the wrap-dress. Let’s try Macy’s. Where kind of country is Laos? Hmm, I knew that. Is anything made in the USofA anymore? What of this shirtdress? Right, and you called the last five dresses good. I bet you’d have an opinion if Frank were asking.

Alex sneezed.

Susan eyed him once over. “Coming down with something?”

“Probably.”

There was a minute of quiet confusion in her eyes. “The wrap dress is good enough.”

“An excellent choice, Mom. I really mean it.

Alex did not like the red rash winged across Susan’s nose or her impatient gangling out the scintillating egress.

Susan excused herself to the restroom, and standing by a steel stanchion, Alex shifted the bags of pink, mauve and glitter, to complete a more debonair look. Stupid yes, but a man had to try. The mall, tall lights, long shadows, a coliseum of stalls, extended arses and toddler parades, and lacking the excitable fribble of schoolgirls, felt miserably vacuous. And tempting his skeptical glance, a lone middle-aged couple hobbled together over the secret contents of a department store bag.

“It better be good enough, it’s sixty bucks.”

“Peachy. Just peachy. Do you have a better idea?”

“Not getting anything is a better cheaper idea.”

“You’re not the one who has to listen to the twelve hour bitching and moaning—”

“If you’d just be nice for a change, she won’t bitching and moaning.”

“Yeah, nice, like getting this fucking present that you fucking hate.”

And on and on their voices billowed unimpeded through the barren hollow of steel and placards for graduation discounts. At least, Alex conceded, they still quarreled. Mercifully, there was still life to be kindled, or to be snuffed out, but vim and vigor all the same. Unlike the heat death of his parents’ relationship, which began with a whimper and ended with limp utterances to remain friends.

His phone beeped a text message from Janet, “We should totally go with Tom to play black jack.” He could even hear her salutary contralto whine over the sudden babble of women flapping out of the mall bookstore. Immediately, a febrile cloud drizzled, and a cough nagged at the bottom of his throat as he could not erase the image of Frank’s pale hand gripping his kneecap, or the asperity in his jeers against Janet’s oft proclaimed dissatisfaction with the cards, her quest for a more suitable—Frank scoffed—more ladylike hobby.  He deserved something, Alex thought, finger-combing his hair in search of vindication. A good fucking would be good. Maybe he should call Tony, Jacob even better, but definitely after his cold thing was gone. Either way, something was deserved for persisting through Frank’s odes to the mystical grace of her figure in a tube top and short shorts, his muttering about her piss-yellow toenails.

“Frank isnt coming, if u arent coming. I wanna go, so there,” came another message.

“Deep throat him, and he’ll do anything u want. Im out,” he replied furiously.

Alex elected not to read her reply. He was done with them, he thought. And in assertion of insouciance, he greedily pictured Dimov folded over in the backseat of his car, ass high in the air and snug against his hard dick. Alex shared a good smile with a kid stepping out of the bookstore and repositioned the bags so to provide a warm rest against his groin.  The fuck was ridiculous even for his standards, but he had crowned it the perfect way to forget the shitastic interview and to celebrate a-hell-fuck-it-surrender to the gods of adulthood and abnegation. Dimov himself was surprisingly pliant, mousy in fact, muscularly eager to please.