I yanked it open before she completed the question, causing her to stumble back, startled. I have this effect on people because I’m not small. Truth be told, I’m quite large. I’m larger than is polite or appropriate, as my family frequently reminds me. Imposing, my aunt calls it.
But I’d like to think I’m also agile, especially for my size.
Tapping into this agility, I maneuvered around the warm body and located my shirt and jacket, pulled them on as she watches. I didn’t waste time looking for my tie, instead claiming my shoes and socks, and sitting on a sad little bench by the front door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her take a few timid steps toward me; she was in a bathrobe and her arms were crossed over her chest. “Have you lost your voice? Because you were chatty enough last night.”
“No,” I said, finished with my right sock and moving to the left.
“Is this a brush off, then?”
“Yes.” I really like my shoes. I remind myself to find a pair in brown.
She sniffled. She was crying. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they cry buckets. I’m never moved by these displays of overt mawkishness, especially when I can count on being tagged in a half hour on Twitter when she posts the pictures of me sleeping.
I stood and buttoned my shirt, then checked my back pocket to make sure I still have my wallet and phone. I did.
So I left.
I didn’t have time to stop by the shop and search for the mystery sandalwood lotion before breakfast, as I still needed to shower, shave, and dress properly. But I promised myself, if I can make it through the morning without entertaining any games of passive aggressive superiority, I’d pick up a bottle on my way home.
…who am I kidding? Most of my family detests me. I’d pick up the lotion either way.