“No, it’s not just the towels,” she said lightly. “But it’s a start. They’re like a million years old and been air-dried one too many times. Not to mention their size. Maybe it worked to be parading around half-naked with Jenn, but it’s not going to be the same with me.”
Damn. A Jenn mention combined with a rejection uppercut. She wasn’t playing very nice this morning. Round and round the disposal I went.
“All right,” I conceded, wiping my eyes awake. “We need new towels. Anything else?”
“New bedsheets, not the ones you borrowed from Rebecca. Something nice for the room. I’d also like a small chest of drawers for my clothes, maybe something charming for my jewelry and shit.”
“That can be arranged,” I said. “You know, if you want you can move in this room. I have no problems sleeping in the den. This can be your room from now on.”
A wash of sadness came over her blue eyes. Her gaze fixed on the floor. “No, thank you, but I like the den. I’ve slept there before…it’s the only place that really feels like home to me now, you know?”
I did. “They opened up a Target downtown recently, want to go check it out?”
That put another smile on her face. I fucking hated Target with a passion, but I’d gladly endure the blank-faced, jogging pants and screaming children, soulless money-trap to see those dimples again and again.
* * *
Target was the newest blemish on downtown Seattle’s increasingly gentrified face. It was like the city said, “Sure, suburbs, come rest your fat asses on our gritty, thought-provoking pores, we don’t mind.”
I regretfully expressed this very sentiment to Perry and she told me I was nothing but a hipster. Ouch. She was really going all out today.
Luckily, Perry isn’t as wiffle-waffley as you’d think when it comes to shopping. Ask her about her favorite band, her favorite movie, or how she feels about one Dex Foray and you’d get a million different, indecisive answers. But once Perry hit the glaring lights of the fluorescent showroom of death, she was sucked straight toward the homewares department like she was in their tractor beam. Ten minutes later, the red shopping cart was drowning in a sea of fluffy towels that I swore were made out of poodles, a silky blue bedset, a faux-wooden set of drawers that looked like they were salvaged from IKEA rejects and frou-frou girly things that made my head spin. I had to give her credit; in this case, she knew exactly what she wanted and she was getting it.
“Wow,” I said, leaning oh-so casually against the cart’s handlebars as she piled in a bunch of smelly candles. “Now that you’ve put a whole sweatshop back in business, do you need anything else? Lingerie, perhaps?”
She snorted and started walking down the aisle, her boots squeaking. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged and pushed the cart along. “Not really for myself. I find thongs are a bit too binding around my balls. I need gentle cupping action, not dental floss down the seam.”
“That’s a shame,” she said over her shoulder. “I think you’d pull off pink lace very nicely.”
I wished I had a rebuttal for that, but all I could think about was her in something pink and lacey. Perry was one of those girls who was built to fuck. I know, I know, it sounds crude and maybe it is, but there’s something extremely poetic about it. She thinks she’s heavy and plus-sized, but she’s perfectly sized. She’s short enough that I can just pick her up and show her who’s the boss. Yet with her hips, her curves, those fan-fuckingtastic breasts, she’s the one who calls all the shots. She’s oblivious to the power she has over men and it was only recently that she began to clue into the power she has over me.
It’s too bad she doesn’t know what to do with it.
She slowed down, the sexy sashay of her walk keeping my eyes glued to her ass, then she suddenly ducked down one of the aisles. It was the pet department. Not exactly where we needed to go.
“Perry,” I warned.
“I’m seeing if there’s something cute for Fat Rabbit,” she said, stopping near the shirts.
“Don’t you dare,” I said, ramming the cart against her ass. As I suspected, it bounced right off.
“Ow,” she said absently as she went through the racks of embarrassing dog outfits. Hey, I loved Fat Rabbit as much as a guy can love a small, furry poop-machine, but there was no way in hell any dog of mine was going to look like slobbering Honey Boo Boo.
“I know I said you could make yourself feel more comfortable, it just can’t be at the expense of my dog’s comfort. Fatty Rab will hate you if you put him in any of these shirts.”
“Oh, whatever,” she said dismissively, examining a polka dot parka. “Fatty Rab can tell me himself, plus it’s still winter. It’s cold out.”
“You can justify it anyway you want,” I said shaking my head, “but – “
“Mommy!” a Nazgul-ish shriek emitted from the other side of Perry.
We both looked over. A tiny, sniveling little boy of about three or four years old was running toward Perry with his arms open wide. This was a new development.
She stared down at the boy, afraid and perplexed until the boy stopped a couple feet away and looked at her with a matching expression.
“You’re not my mommy,” they boy whimpered. Poor little fucker.
Perry immediately put the parka back on the rack and crouched down to the boy’s level.
“Are you lost?” she asked, her voice soaring to sugary heights that made my heart pang.
The boy wiped his
