A Comedy of Errors [pthalo]
Dec 5, 2013 0:48:57 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 5, 2013 0:48:57 GMT -5
[/size][/justify]{K o h l} {S c o r i a}
I suppose I could’ve found another time to go and get a new suit. It hadn’t been as though I’d overheard him in the gym talking about—and having talked to him about—when he too would be wondering the shopping district. A part of me felt as though I was certain, just itching, to see him out of the corner of my eye. I wouldn’t ever admit this, of course. The last thing I would want him to realize is that a small part of me, outside of the much larger, heavier, and stronger portion, gave any thought to who he was at all. Fate seemed more amenable to all of this; my mother and father both clucked their tongues that my tuxedo seemed so out of fashion. Hadn’t I seen how they were dressed for the games this year? The colors were all light and pastel, to go with a more youthful appearance. I obliged, begrudgingly.
Lately I’d felt as though it was more of a struggle to perform at their gatherings. When the world was smaller—when I was smaller—shaking hands and wishing people well seemed an easy task. But now that I’ve grown older, and I can actually look into a man’s eyes and see something lurking deeper, it takes all my energy to give them the time of day. My sister gave me a lecture the other day for being so glum at a party. Sipping on champagne and huddling in a corner, I hadn’t spoken to a guest the entire night. We were supposed to be celebrating a Moreno or something, the girl who’d exploded someone in the games, but as if I could care whether or not she lived or died. Still, my sister persisted in reminding me that my mother and father worked hard to get us where we were, and that all my dour appearances weren’t helping with my own future.
I'd spent some time thinking about when Jem and I had last seen each other. Were we friends? I'd teased, poked, and prodded the boy but a part of me felt that somehow it ran deeper. While he was easy to infuriate, and knew which buttons to push, I couldn't deny that there was more there. It seemed silly, to think the two of us could ever, or would ever, get over our first unlucky meetings. The Morgans were absolutely off limits, anyway, weren't they? My family didn't deal in actual politics. Somehow his name kept popping back into my head, and I look this way and that way along my walk to see if he's anywhere to be found.
The door chimes as I enter the boutique, and I hesitate for a moment. I spy no one of interest and take a step inside. There are already a few men talking with the tailors and another approaches to size me up. I dig in my pocket for a card—because all good men carry business cards with their family crest, suit size, and personal information—and before I know it am whisked away to the mirrors for a look at something fun. It’s dreadfully boring to be waited on hand and foot all the time. The number of times I sigh must give the tailor a hint; he disappears into the back room for a while I get undressed. A powder blue suit seems in order, I think. It is classically gauche and would drive my parents up a wall if I wore it to one of their little soirees. Though I wonder, for just a moment, what Jem will think. It was, after all, in the fashion of the capitol this season, was it not? But did he care about what they thought?
I hear the curtain pulled back, but watch myself in the mirror. I’ve taken off my shirt and tossed it casually aside—he’d have to find something colorful, something fun. Or perhaps hideous, if I were in the mood to go the distance. I make a face as I wait, less and less patiently, for the man to bring me the rest of my suit. It’s a wonder that this place is so highly regarded if their service is so terribly slow. I begin to tap my foot and cross my arms across my chest.
“For having kept me waiting so long, you ought to have brought me something interesting.” Imagine my surprise when I turn to see that it is not, in fact, the tailor.
