Fashionably Challenged
Amir was holding my shoe in one hand, my bare foot in the other. Surreal, it was, as we sat by ourselves in the cafeteria on the ground floor of Harborside eating pre-packaged sushi. Twin towers leered at us through the window from across the river. We tried to talk about the corporate merger, but Amir just wanted to talk about my new heels.
“How much?” he asked. What he really wanted to know was if I’d bought them on sale. I told him I paid full price. “Garden State Plaza?” he asked next. What he really wanted to know was if I got them in the city. I told him I did.
For reasons unknown, Amir was always tapping my fashion sense. I was a broke, small-town hippie turned big-city yuppie, and I couldn't see why rich, Manhattan-bred Amir would want to talk to me about clothes. The Versace clique would have been much more helpful.
“Want to go to Short Hills after work?” he offered. I couldn't resist his soulful brown eyes. I nodded my answer. He was still holding my foot, gently rubbing his thumb along the soft skin of my arch. I was silently hoping our boss didn't find us in this entirely unprofessional stance, but then I remembered that our boss was most likely having lunch in the restaurant instead of the cafeteria, using the company card. My shoe remained in Amir's other hand.
Amir was killing time at this company. He had already been hired for the trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange, but the job didn't start for another six months. In the meantime, he gathered experience working across the river, trading and talking about mutual funds all day with brokers in the cubicle next to mine. I hadn't ever considered the NYSE for a career, but the more I hung out with Amir, the more enticing it was.
At Short Hills, he tried on a dozen suits. I helped him settle on two. He blew an entire paycheck paying for them. In return, he helped me blow half a paycheck on another pair of shoes.
“I’ll drive you home,” said Amir after our shopping spree.
“God, no,” I insisted. I lived at least thirty miles out of his way. “I’ll take the train.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s late.”
We tossed our shopping bags in the backseat of his Jetta and talked the whole way up to Hackensack. I thanked him for driving me home, apologizing for how far he had to drive. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “You helped me pick out those suits.”
He parked and turned off the engine. He turned to me. “May I come in for a glass of water before I head home?”
There it was, my moment of clarity. It wasn't fashion advice that Amir needed from me. I smiled coyly, and our eyes locked in understanding.
“Of course,” I replied. “Come on in.”
“How much?” he asked. What he really wanted to know was if I’d bought them on sale. I told him I paid full price. “Garden State Plaza?” he asked next. What he really wanted to know was if I got them in the city. I told him I did.
For reasons unknown, Amir was always tapping my fashion sense. I was a broke, small-town hippie turned big-city yuppie, and I couldn't see why rich, Manhattan-bred Amir would want to talk to me about clothes. The Versace clique would have been much more helpful.
“Want to go to Short Hills after work?” he offered. I couldn't resist his soulful brown eyes. I nodded my answer. He was still holding my foot, gently rubbing his thumb along the soft skin of my arch. I was silently hoping our boss didn't find us in this entirely unprofessional stance, but then I remembered that our boss was most likely having lunch in the restaurant instead of the cafeteria, using the company card. My shoe remained in Amir's other hand.
Amir was killing time at this company. He had already been hired for the trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange, but the job didn't start for another six months. In the meantime, he gathered experience working across the river, trading and talking about mutual funds all day with brokers in the cubicle next to mine. I hadn't ever considered the NYSE for a career, but the more I hung out with Amir, the more enticing it was.
At Short Hills, he tried on a dozen suits. I helped him settle on two. He blew an entire paycheck paying for them. In return, he helped me blow half a paycheck on another pair of shoes.
“I’ll drive you home,” said Amir after our shopping spree.
“God, no,” I insisted. I lived at least thirty miles out of his way. “I’ll take the train.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s late.”
We tossed our shopping bags in the backseat of his Jetta and talked the whole way up to Hackensack. I thanked him for driving me home, apologizing for how far he had to drive. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “You helped me pick out those suits.”
He parked and turned off the engine. He turned to me. “May I come in for a glass of water before I head home?”
There it was, my moment of clarity. It wasn't fashion advice that Amir needed from me. I smiled coyly, and our eyes locked in understanding.
“Of course,” I replied. “Come on in.”
