01 "Sasha" I

The weather is warm, but it's the only expected outcome of a sticky spring evening. These evenings have never and most certainly will never be my favourite -- the evenings where the weather proves point blanc that it can only ever truly be warm in the hours after a storm. And it makes perfect sense; air with high moisture contents holds heat far better than if it was dry. Even though I know I often tell myself 'I wish it was warm', I feel naked without a monster sweater or my dandelion yellow puffer (the bubble coat which I hold very close and very fondly to my heart, may it momentarily rest in peace).

It's probably why I look odd as I watch myself in the mirror behind the bedroom door, tucking my feet beneath me, nails between my teeth. I look far too slender in the top, of which my puffer would have cancelled out (don't even get me started on the sounds it makes and how much further they complete me)... proportionally my thighs and my ass have far more substance than my arms and my chest, and it bugs me -- but there's nothing I can do about it; I worked out intensely on and off all through high school, and all I have to show for it is an odd shape and stretch marks where I don't want them. That, perhaps, is just another example of problems made worse by meddling. A lesson I'm sure I'll never learn.

"This one?" It was his familiar voice that met me before I saw him. After that, it was the pale yellow button-up that greeted me with a sheepish grin of opal buttons over his sternum (the very colour my puffer would be if the weather would permit I wear it), and a pair of dark wash jeans -- but he hasn't done the shirt up. Instead, he's clutching the buttons and holes together casually. It's because of that he's told me that he knows I won't approve. Again, my eyes flicker to myself in the mirror as I shift on his bed. 

"No," my reply follows a small, hollow laugh on my half before I swing my legs from beneath me and find my feet -- but this time, I make sure not to watch it in the mirror in preservation of the shambles my ego has been left in. In fact, I barely register the movement as I approach the doorway of his wardrobe and pace past him. 

My toes seem to have vanished, I can only feel the carpet on the heels of my feet. Surely my legs were only crossed for what could have been five minutes... but there's larger issues on hand than that; like the fact that this is the first time in ages that the man has seen me without an oversized garment of some sorts on my upper half; and suddenly, I'm self-conscious. Is my push-up bra enough to conceal the lack of breasts I harbour on top of bones and limply-clinging flesh? Is the shirt tight enough to even notice? Is my ass distracting enough to draw attention away from my upper half altogether? Afterall, it is far more fun to stick a dïck in the ass than it is to throw it between a pair of tits. 

An ass is tight. Screwing cleavage would be like (in most cases) throwing open a window and fücking the night. And by most cases, I mean the cases of the other trillion odd women who cart around 'A'-sized-cups. But, I digress.

His face falls from the crease in the corners of his eyes and the slight angle of his lips into expression instead of slight disappointment. Why did he ask me my opinion if he was going to reject the opinion of anything conflicting his own? Surely this is an indication he wants me to take the lead -- I'm guessing he thinks he's selected the best one, and he's presenting a silent challenge. It won't be hard at all to find a better version of the garment... the man has awful taste. 

It barely takes a moment to find the (far more favourable) blue match to the one he had selected. The yellow shirt only looks good with black or near-black pants; of which he's not wearing. The blue one, however, is quite flattering. It's not particularly in my best interest to be helping him of all people appear to have a superior sense of style; maybe if I let him go out in the two conflicting hues, which for some reason only looked awful on him, the woman will be so optically offended that there will be no second date. Maybe if I correct the fashion choice, I could catch a glimpse among many of the man without a shirt on. Where exactly does the cost outweigh the benefit?

I turn to face him again within the same movement that I pull the shirt from its hanger. I'm lucky it slid off fluidly, courtesy of the collar buttons not being done up -- as opposed to my very favourite shirt of the man's instead busting at the seams... It's a shirt that even I have worn on multiple occasions. what can I say? I really do love it, (though not as much as my bubble coat).

"This one," I speak after I have pivoted and stepped around him to face the man, and I present the shirt between us. He hadn't bothered to turn away from the lip of the wardrobe or to face me at all. I wonder, is he soaking up the sun just as much as I was only minutes ago? The shoulders of the button-up are pinched between my fingers, and the garment hangs as an offering. I don't wonder if he'll take it, I know he will. He's steadily nearing middle-aged and therefore has the sense to know he can trust a woman for advice on pleasing a woman. 

In the effects of a last-minute impulse, I snatch the shirt away from the man and ball the fabric in my fists. It comes with a thin-lipped smile I can't fight and a few paces around him as I tug the yellow federal offence from his shoulders, a final string of order fleeing my lips. "Arms out," It doesn't take a genius to realise that I just can't help myself. 

"You know," It's not the end of the sentence he will speak, I can tell that much from the way he finishes on a high note -- just as he spoke, he extended his arms out from himself. I'm assuming he rolls his eyes as he does so, because of the way his head tips back and rolls in an odd motion ever-so-slightly; or rather the way his chin lifts and follows the movements that his eyes would have if he, in fact, had been rolling his eyes. I guess I'll never truly know for sure if my volunteer service for the elderly has just gone ungratified, or furthermore if Damon is simply just an ass.

I ignore the troubling detail and retrace my steps around the man, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are brown -- a bright amber, courtesy of direct sunlight -- and he's fighting the same smile I am.  "-I used to dress you,"

"Yeah, well..." I lift my hands and begin to feed the buttons of the shirt through their holes. I make a guilty effort to brush his skin at odd times as I do so, the oh-so-inappropriately-toned skin, the skin graced by subtle muscle and odd freckles. "You've been dressing me for too long, it's my turn to dress you now," I reach down before I can talk myself out of it and dive my hands beneath his belt -- he inhales deeply and sharply as I do so. I can't battle or correct the mischevious smirk I can feel and see from the corner of my outer-most peripheral in the face of the mirror. He stops me before I can get close enough to asses just what I've always wanted to, and so his hands snap to my wrists almost immediately and soon enough his hands have replaced mine and he's tucking his shirt beneath his belt, himself. 

"No daughter should ever say that," he replied quickly, his eyes meeting mine before I watch him turn to the mirror and begin to adjust the shirt. It definitely looks far better on him than the yellow. I think he knows it, too. 

"Yeah, well I'm not your daughter," I smile as I step back and throw myself onto his bed just as I had before, and I can feel the duvet swallow me with all its duck-down glory. I want one on my bed. "-and one day when you're crusty and old with Alzheimer's, I will have to say that," I watch as he turns to me, and I dangle my legs over the edge of his bed with a small smile. 

"You are my daughter," I keep my eyes to him as he begins his approach, and I only shift my eyes when I instead watch his hands adjust the collar of his shirt around his neck. "And I already am 'crusty and old'," he looks down at me when he's finally at the edge of his bed and I find it's impossible to truly fight the smile which has only taken different forms in the last few minutes -- It won't leave me, and I shouldn't be happy that he is. I should be jealous like my heart tells me I feel, but it's only for the better of the worse; it would be odd if I presented myself as the jealous admirer.

"Aww, does daddy have dementia?" I pout in response and wait for the rise from him it will earn. I get it soon enough, and this time I know for sure he has rolled his eyes as I watch him flash the veiny whites otherwise hidden by his lids. I envy the extent to which he can roll his eyes.

"You're too old to call me that," he speaks after the brown of his eyes have shifted to meet my gaze again, his tone somewhat rich in authority. I can't take the man seriously when he does attempt to flex the jurisdiction he should have... he's not even remotely scary enough to whip anyone into shape; he can't even punish the cat when he pisses on the laundry. His heart it too soft. 

"No, I'm not," I begin to retreat from his room, listening as he follows. It's the sound of his skipping steps that coax goosebumps on the back of my neck and a shriek from my lips as I begin to run from the man without a thought to it -- and it's the same sound of his steps that tugs a chuckle from his own lips as his arms wrap around me.

I'm not in his arms long enough for me to note the exact shape of his chest and status of his crotch -- instead, I'm being thrown to the couch, but it is better than the streets. And it's not me to taunt him this time when I land. Instead, he has a half-assed quip that couldn't have been worse if he tried. "You're bad," he chuckles as he delivers the words, he doesn't entirely take himself seriously, either.