Don't Look Down

fifteen: don't analyze this

I've switched clothes more times than I can count and right now I'm not even moderately satisfied with the appearance reflected back at me in the mirror. My make-up is perfect, my hair looks flawless, but the outfit isn't working.

I discard the shorts and beige tank onto my bed with the rest of my rejects and rifle through my closet for the next option. Half of it's currently on my bed. When I slip on a little black dress, the reason behind my fretting peers in through my cracked bedroom door.

Seth's dressed in a faded brown t-shirt and dark-washed jeans, looking effervescent in what I'm sure took three minutes. I know this because over the past two weeks I've learned a lot. I know it takes him twelve minutes to shower and be presentable for work. I know he prefers crime dramas with thought-provoking dialogue, but still sits with me as I wade my way through various romantic comedies. I know he enjoys the smell of vanilla because he's switched my wall plug-in back to the scent each time I've attempted to change it to lavender. I know the sound of me biting my nails as I work through a manuscript makes him want to smash his fists through walls. And I know when he smiles, it's genuine about ninety percent of the time.

I also know I'm completely, undeniably attracted to him. And the attraction isn't going away.

My roommate is many things-sweet, hilarious, and reliable (the last is supported by the full rent check I dropped off last week)-but available as an option for me is not one of them. He's still emotionally detached with his secrets padlocked, and at the end of the day he's still going to be the man I live with. Sex with him isn't an option.

However, it doesn't matter how often I give myself the rundown, my physical instincts overrule rationality. Which is why tonight needs to go well. That starts with the perfect outfit. With it, I can charm Bill's socks off and hopefully follow it with an ignition spark. I also need Seth to stop undressing me with his eyes from the doorway. My heart races as they rake their way up my legs and along my dress, lingering at my chest before settling at the column of my neck.

When his gaze finally meets mine, he clears his throat. "You ready yet? Marsha's waiting in a taxi downstairs and you know even better than I do you don't keep that girl waiting."

From past knowledge, she's two minutes away from stomping her butt up four flights of stairs and into my apartment to push me through the front door. It won't matter if I'm only sporting a bra and matching set of undies.

But I need to look perfect, and this lace-back dress isn't doing the trick. It's possible my breasts are sagging. "I need another minute."

"Ellie." He lifts my phone so I can read her text. "She's using all caps and if I have any shot at a peaceful evening, you're seriously shitting on it right now."

"Marsha will be fine." I attempt to undo my back zipper and fail to reach it.

"Stop changing your outfit like an indecisive teenager," he scolds, stepping into my room to clasp the button above my zipper. The contact sears my flesh and I resist the urge to close my eyes and lean further into his touch. "You could show up in a paper bag and still have this guy nutting in his pants."