The Next Mrs Russo

“You okay, boss? You’re a little… twitchy.”

I glare at Miller. He’s being really helpful today, hanging up new pieces, steaming out the wrinkles, and moving our chairs around. I picked the chairs up at an estate sale with a few vintage Versace pieces. They’re just retro enough to be trendy again, and they fit in perfectly with my vibe. We’ve made a little sitting area next to the fitting room for people to comfortably sit while they’re waiting for their friends or mothers or daughters or whomever to try on dresses. It looks way better than the random dining room chair that I was using before.

“I am not twitchy,” I insist. “I am focused. I have a lot of energy, you know. Artists have a lot of energy.”

“So you’re nervous,” Miller replies, unimpressed with my claims of productive energy. “Are you nervous about your governor boyfriend?”

I glare at him again. Clearly the first glare didn’t take. Well, that and the fact that absolutely no one is afraid of my glares. Ineffective on both cats and teenagers. They were also ineffective on creeps on the subway when I was in the city, come to think of it.

Also useless on rude salespeople.

Maybe I should YouTube glaring techniques.

Ugh. My to-do list is never done.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, which even to me sounds a bit whiny in tone. “It’s a fake relationship.”

“Right, right,” Miller easily agrees. “A fake boyfriend who you live with. In his real house. Also known as the governor’s mansion.”

“Because of my plumbing issues,” I remind him. “It’s just a quid pro quad situation.”

Miller wrinkles his nose. “What school did you even graduate from? It’s quid pro quo.”

“That’s what I said,” I lie. “Now hush. I’m creating, and I need to focus.” I exhale loudly, close my eyes and pinch my fingertips together in what I think is some kind of yoga/meditation maneuver, but I can’t be sure since I do neither.

“You’re ridiculous,” Miller says, not even attempting to mumble it.

I glare. He asks if I have something in my eye. I really gotta work on that.

The piece I’m tearing apart and putting back together today is a tough one. I found it at the same estate as the chairs, but it’s arguably not as good a find. It’s a big, floofy dress, definitely 80s, with big white circles on unforgiving black fabric. It looks more like a trash bag than a dress, but there’s something about it that I love. I just have to figure out the right way to upcycle it.

Which I can do. Because I am decisive.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Miller tells me.

“Was I?”

“Yes. You were.”

“Well, it’s a part of my new zen routine.”

“Telling yourself you’re decisive?” Miller frowns, one brow raised in suspicion.

“It’s a process,” I reply, drawing out the word and dramatically widening my arms to indicate just how big the process is.

“So, who told you you weren’t decisive?” Miller’s got his arms crossed, that stubborn teenage look on his face that tells me he isn’t going to be dropping this any time soon.

“No one,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter. The person who said it was wrong. I am extremely decisive.”

“So no one told you that or the person who told you that is wrong?”

This kid, I swear. “Jesus, Miller. Are you going into fashion or trial law?”

“You’re very decisive in fashion,” Miller replies, ignoring my jab.

“Exactly! Thank you.”

“Personally though? You’re an indecisive mess.”

Unreal. Un-freaking-real.

Now I’m being lectured by both cats and teenagers.

“I am so,” I argue, mainly as a point of pride. “For example, I needed my plumbing fixed and the governor offered to help me in exchange for me pretending to be his date or girlfriend or whatever, and I decisively agreed.”

“Uh, that’s not what I remember,” Miller says. “Pretty sure—”

Thankfully we’re interrupted at that exact moment by the door jingling and the appearance of a customer. Miller helps them out while I bury myself into my design, pushing aside any and all criticism.

I am a badass designer.

That’s all that matters at the moment.

Thoughts of my alleged shortcomings and whatever is happening or not happening with the governor are forgotten.

At least until later.

* * *

After work, I decide I need to relax. I’ve let the pet psychic get to me. Also this plumbing/forced roommate situation isn’t helping anything. And I’ve been working really hard, between actual work and all the time spent faking it with the governor.

So tonight, I deserve some me time. Because faking it is all frustration and no satisfaction.

So it’s up to me to find it for myself. Decisively.

I find a comfy blanket in the sitting room, and then I curl up on the couch with my earbuds and my iPad. And then I head to one of my favorite sites on the internet. The one with all the naked people.