I head straight for the shirt rack and start to sling hangers. Luckily, they are sorted by size. I’m immediately drawn to a black dress shirt. It’s heavily embroidered with gold roses and reminds me of a mariachi band.
“Check this out!” I hold it up to show Martin.
“Nice.” He’s holding a pair of bright pink denim jeans, and smiles back. “How’s this for out-of-character?”
“You should definitely try those on!” I throw my golden find over my shoulder. “Find something to go with it.”
“Are we actually buying anything today?” he asks, tucking the pink pants under his arm.
“Not a chance!” I say, grabbing a shirt from the rack and holding it up for Martin to see. This one is maroon satin with glossy pinstripes running vertically.
“That needs some chest hair and a heavy gold chain to go with it.” Martin laughs.
“I’m definitely trying it on! This is so not me!” I dig back into the rack of treasures.
Before we know it, our arms are overflowing with the most absurd collection of things, mostly fabrics that I would never own, and I think I see a pair of vinyl pants peeking out of Martin’s pile. We head to the fitting rooms, hangers clanking.
I never thought about this being awkward, and suddenly I’m unprepared. The whole purpose of this together-separate date is to try on all this crazy stuff. The whole reason I asked Martin to come is so we can do this together. The changing rooms are small cubicles with a door. Three of them in a row. We’re not going to share a room, so the only way to show what we’ve found is to change and then have a big reveal moment by stepping out of the tiny cubicle. At least, that’s the only way I can see it roll out.
We stand at the changing rooms with loaded arms for a moment, avoiding eye contact.
I decide to lay it out: “You go first,” I say, “try something on, then show me, then I’ll take a turn.”
Martin disappears into the dressing room and shuts the door behind him, while I hang up my collection on the outside hook of the adjoining room and wait.
I see his feet shuffling under the door panel and hear the sound of hooks and hangers, and then laughter. Then more laughter. This must be great.
“Okay, ready,” he says and I see a hand appear at the top of the door panel, pushing it open slowly. “Don’t laugh too hard.”
I am fully prepared to be hysterical by the way he’s been carrying on, but when he steps out, my jaw drops. Despite his collection of pink and/or vinyl pants and his pile of gaudy shirts, the first thing he tries on is sporting wear. He struts through the door wearing a skin-tight long-sleeve compression shirt in light blue and a pair of low-slung board shorts that graduate from black to navy. The white shoelace at the waist is tied in a tidybow. He’s laughing, and swaggering and then begins to flex and pose. It’s stunning.
And ripply.
And smooth.
I try to laugh along, but can’t make a sound. The sleeves stretch from bicep bulge to tricep indentation as he strikes pose after pose. He rotates and the bulges of his back feel like they should be counted, but then he turns and his two massive pecs count themselves. The outline of his gold chain presses through the fabric, the small pendant outlining itself on his chest. He looks up at me and curls both legs up into a sideways bodybuilding pose and flexes both arms.
“Me Hanz.” He’s using a dark, low, mocking voice. “Have big muscles, yes?” Then he relaxes his posture and begins to laugh, flipping his arms around to look at the sleeves of his shirt, pulling on the cuffs.
I smile.
And stare.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I retreat into my head. These clothes look like the most natural, in-character thing he would ever wear and here he is, risking them as if they were out-of-character. I can’t fit these contradicting facts into my world view. He is so beautiful. This realization, also, will not compute, and I must have let it show on my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I look up from the v-taper at his waist to his eyes, which seem to match the blue of the Lycra. “You look,” my brain struggles to land on an appropriate word, “great.”
Neither of us are laughing now.
“You think?” He flips his arms around, as if trying to look at his elbows.
“Why did you pick that as an out-of-character outfit?”
He stops hunting for his elbows. “What do you mean?”
