Imperfect Affections

“It’ll be yellow,” I say. “If you want to make a sale, I suggest you hurry up and show us what you’ve got. I don’t have all day.”

Sandy’s cheeks turn red. She glares at me even as her professional smile stays intact. Turning to Violet, she says in a compassionate tone, “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find you something lovely.”

I catch Sandy’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “With the emphasis on speedy rather than lovely.”

Sandy’s nostrils flare, but she walks with a stiff back to the rail. The hangers click together as she flips through them and selects a handful of dresses.

“This way,” she says to Violet with a pitying smile, indicating the changing room.

Behind me, Violet gets to her feet obediently. I follow her progress in the mirror, watching her uneven gait as she walks with square shoulders to the curtained-off area.

“Here,” I say when Violet passes me.

Sandy turns, her arms bogged down with a mountain of yellow fabric. “Excuse me?”

“She can change here,” I say. “In front of me. That’s what I paid for.”

Sandy goes rigid. The color on Violet’s cheeks deepens from dark pink to furnace red, but neither woman says a word.

“Here, love,” Sandy says, hanging one of the dresses on a portable rail next to the sofa. “Why don’t you start with this one?” Shooting me a cutting look, she goes to the counter and presses a button that closes the blinds in front of the windows.

That’s very considerate of her, but Sandy doesn’t know Violet is a closet-exhibitionist. She likes it when I watch. Or maybe that’s the thing. Maybe she only likes it when I watch. I’ve never had a jealous bone in my body, but as I imagine other men ogling her naked curves, I decide here and now it’s better for both of us if her exhibitionist tendencies are limited to me. I’ve always been happy to indulge a woman’s fantasies. I pride myself on doing so. But if sharing is Violet’s fantasy, it’ll be my first exception, the one fantasy I’ll never deliver. She’s all mine, every deceiving, betraying inch of her.

I check my watch. “As I said, darling, I don’t have all day.”

A glimmer of hurt simmers in the depths of Violet’s expressive eyes before she hides it behind a veil of anger.

Why that bothers me, I have no idea. The road we’re about to walk is paved with deceit. I’m laying down the cornerstones, setting the foundation for our future by teaching her to conceal her feelings and hide them from me. It’s not what I would’ve chosen before yesterday, but it is what it is today.

Turning her back on me, Violet removes her sneakers. She struggles, almost losing her balance without a seat, but I don’t go forward to help her, which is a dick move considering her disability. That’s not what we’re about. We’re not about consideration.

Next, she shimmies out of her jeans, pushing them over her round, tight ass to reveal the string of her thong that disappears in her crease. I study her shamelessly, following her actions as she pushes the jeans down her thighs and frees her feet. She avoids meeting my gaze in the mirror while I pretend I’m not sporting a boner when her T-shirt comes off and she stands in black lace underwear in front of me.

Sandy rushes to her aid, helping her into the dress and assisting with the zipper.

My phone pings with a notification. It’s a message from HR, instructing me to inform them of the reason for my absence at my earliest convenience.

Before the dress is fully zipped up, I say, “No.”

I don’t even look up from my phone. The dress is pretty enough, but it doesn’t suit Violet. The cut must be from the sixties. Vintage isn’t her style.

Shopping, I reply.

Let the fuckers have a field day with that.

From my peripheral vision, I spot a fuming Sandy peeling the dress off Violet.

She helps her fit another and poses Violet in front of me.

“How about this one?” Sandy asks. “The knee-length is back in fashion big time.”

“No,” I say, not gracing Violet with more than a glance.

She looks like she walked straight from a commercial for vacuum cleaners, one of those tacky ones in which the housewife poses in a fancy dress and heels on a floor so clean her image reflects in the tiles.

Huffing, Sandy takes the next dress off the rail. “This one has more of a wedding flair. Personally, I think it’s the best choice of the lot.”

Violet steps into the dress while Sandy zips her up.

When I lift my gaze, I forget to breathe. The dress is a tight fit, the simple cut hugging Violet’s generous curves and flat stomach. The hem ends mid-thigh, exposing her long, tanned legs. The old-gold fabric has a mat shine that brings out the bronze color of her skin. The dress looks perfect on her. She’s a goddess.

Sandy gasps. “It’s gorgeous on you.”

Agreed.

Smoothing her hands over her stomach, Violet finally speaks. “It looks like I’m going to a nightclub.” She couldn’t look more ill at ease in the dress if she tried to be.

I stand, pocketing my phone. “We’ll take it.”

Violet gives me a startled look. “I don’t want it.”

“I do.” Walking over, I take her shoulders, turn her around, and pull down the zipper. “That’s all that matters.”

The shop assistant stands aside, clearing her throat.

Violet shivers as I push the sleeves over her arms.

“I don’t even need a dress,” she says.

Now that she broke her silence, the floodgates have opened. She’s as mouthy as I got to know her. Good. I like the old Violet.