Michael's Arc

Chapter 7 of 9

Saturday afternoon Michael stood in front of his open closet and lost. Tank tops on the left. Jeans folded on the right. A single hoodie on a hanger like a joke. He had four hours until seven and nothing a woman who ironed her scarves would want to see across a table. He drove to the mall. He walked past the stores he usually walked into and kept going until he saw a mannequin in a slim black suit. A clerk with a tape measure around her neck looked him up and down once and pointed him to a fitting room. "Charcoal," she said. "Not black. Black on you looks like a waiter." He tried it on. The jacket pulled tight across his shoulders in a way that felt honest. The pants sat clean on his hips. In the mirror he looked like a version of himself he had not met yet. He kept the tag on until the register, then let her cut it off. He added a plain white shirt. No tie. He kept the black cord necklace under the collar because taking it off felt like lying. At six fifty he parked down the street from her house and sat with his hands on the wheel. The porch light was on. The green door looked smaller from the car. He got out before he could think about it more, walked up the steps in shoes that still felt new, and knocked. The door opened. Haydon stood in a black dress that stopped above her knees. Fitted through the waist. Thin straps. Her hair was down and brushed straight past her shoulders. She wore the gold-framed glasses and a thin silver chain at her throat. No jacket tonight. Bare arms. She was holding a wooden spoon. She looked at him. Then she looked at him again, slower, from the shoes up. "You bought a suit," she said. "I bought a suit." "For me." "For you." She stepped back and let him in. As he passed her she touched the lapel with two fingers, checked the fabric like she was pricing it, and let go. "Charcoal," she said. "Good. Black would have looked like a waiter." "That's what the woman said." "She was right." The corner of her mouth moved. "Kitchen. I need another two minutes." He followed her down the narrow hall. The dress moved when she walked in a way the structured jackets never had. He kept his eyes on the back of her head and then gave up and looked. She knew he was looking. She did not turn around. In the kitchen she handed him the wooden spoon and pointed at a pot. "Stir. Slow. Don't scrape the bottom." He stirred. She stood beside him at the stove in the black dress and reached past his arm for the salt. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve and stayed there a second longer than an accident. He understood he had walked into a different evening than the one he had dressed for.