Page 19 of Stroked Long
Why are there so many options?
Do I really need curtains?
Ruby says they’re a protective shield, that she couldn’t live without them. Why does that keep repeating over and over in my head? It’s been on replay ever since she came over, and when I saw her in the coffee house, it only made the voice in my head stronger as I watched her laugh and joke with Eva. Even though her eyes were bright with excitement as she talked to my sister, they were nothing compared to when they looked at me.
From under the bill of my hat, I could see the intrigue in her gaze, I could see the spark in her pupils when I came up with the name for the gala we will be hosting, and I saw the gold of her irises sing with joy when I shook her hand goodbye.
For some odd reason, this girl is starting to get under my skin, and I’m not sure I like it at all.
“Fuck,” I mutter, looking down at my collection of curtain rods and then turn to the curtains.
White, grey, or black?
Squatting down, I rest the curtains rods on the ground and pick out three different panels; the first is plain white that looks like a gauzy material. The second one is plain grey in a heavier material that looks like it would block out all the sun, and the third is black and white zigzag print which seems almost too fucking girly for me.
Squatting to the ground, I lay them all out on the ground next to the curtain rods and examine them next to the brass. I study the textures and how they mesh along with the multiple combinations I could make with the panels and the rods.
“I have no fucking clue.” I sigh in frustration, scoop everything up and turn to purchase them because I can’t decide just as I run into a cart, knocking me backward, curtains and rods scattering to the floor in a loud clash.
“Geeze oh petes!” a lady says as she comes around her cart. “Bodi?”
Looking up, I see those big brown eyes staring down at me, a kind, yet humorous look in her face.
Ruby.
“Hey,” I say, scrambling around to gather my things. The heat of embarrassment from being plowed over by a shopping cart caresses my cheeks.
“I didn’t even see you there. I’m so sorry.”
“Not a problem.”
She’s squatting next to me, trying to gather my items as I turn to kneel to accomplish the same thing, clean up the spill of curtain assembly everywhere.
My items finally register in her mind because she stills and sits up, looking at a panel in her hand. Turning to me, she asks, “Are you getting curtains?”
“Sort of,” I gruff out, more embarrassment washing over me. Does she remember suggesting them to me in my condo?
“It seems like you have a lot of options here.”
“Couldn’t make up my mind.”
“Need help?”
I’m reaching for a small tension rod when I still from her offer.
Need help?
Yes, I need so much fucking help, but I don’t want to ask for it. I don’t want to show vulnerability, and I sure as hell don’t want to welcome her into my brand of crazy.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Taking the remaining items from her, I situate them in my arms, feeling clumsy as fuck, and give her a curt nod.
“All right. Well, if you need help, let me know. I’m excited for you.”
Excited about curtains? That seems odd to me, but I brush it off and start down the aisle.
“Oh you dropped your wallet,” she calls out, chasing me down. “Can’t get all those items without a form of payment. Doubtful you can get away with paying with that winning smile of yours.”
