Reflections
Surrender
New Beginnings
I was going to be late again.
I stared helplessly at the digital hands of the clock on my phone, then out of the grubby window of the cab as the rain-soaked streets flickered past, then back to my phone again.
No message from Dominic yet. I wondered should I call to explain? Maybe he'd already given up hope of me arriving, closed up, and gone home. Maybe he'd forgotten I was even coming. How did I end up with the only taxi driver in Chicago who doesn't drive like a madman?
Lately, my life had felt like an endless sequence of being late to things. Late for work, late for meetings, late to dinner, late to bed.
How did time keep getting away from me? When did everything get so out of control?
It was a point of pride that friends and colleagues thought of me as a woman who could get shit done. They would probably use words like "organized" and "efficient" to describe me, and I expect the men often paired these words with "ruthless" and "calculated" - the kind of casual misogyny that any vaguely successful woman will recognize.
I admit I did my fair share to cultivate that reputation. I used the brainless sexism as fuel. Fuel I needed for all the late nights and weekends, locked in my office. I rarely joined any office social functions. I flatly refused any invitation to coffee or dinner or a movie. I was there to work, not to date. When a man does this, it is considered professionalism. When a woman does it, it's taken as a definite sign that she's a stuck-up bitch.
I told myself that it would all be worth it, and that I was on the home stretch - soon I'd make partner and all the sacrifices - all the long hours and the snide comments and the bullshit - would be worth it. I started telling myself that years ago, and here I still was. Grinding.
Eventually the invitations from co-workers had stopped. Even the most persistent and sleazy men in the office had long given up on trying to fuck me. It seemed my only reward for working my ass off was more work, with the occasional empty email of thanks from the board, though even those had been few and far between lately.
I never stopped to ask myself whether it was worth it. It so obviously wasn't, but I didn't have that person - that friend or colleague or boyfriend - to help me find that perspective. God forbid I'd ever ask anybody for help. I think I was the last person anybody thought would be struggling. I was glad I could give that impression, but the honest truth is I hadn't felt in control of my life for a very long time. I had been giving myself to my job - the whole of myself - for far, far too long. It was starting to take its toll. I knew it. I could feel it.
When you're running late, seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours. The familiar guilt and frustration that I'd felt so often lately coursed through my veins. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch this taxi-driver in his stupid, slow fucking face.
I did none of these things. Instead, I checked the clock on my phone again.
Finally, the cab pulled up. It was on the wrong side of the street. I could have just asked him to turn it around and drop me directly outside the store, but of course I didn't. I thanked my incompetent driver politely, made a mental note to tip him the maximum amount out of guilt for wanting to punch him, and made my way across the street in the pouring rain.
It wasn't just pouring at this point. It was torrential. I was only outside for a matter of seconds but it was long enough. I didn't have my umbrella with me because of course I didn't. Maybe at least Dom would feel sorry for me in this state, I thought.
I made one last check of the time to see how embarrassed I needed to be,,and how much I'd need to grovel. The answer was very embarrassed, and lots of groveling. I was dripping wet by the time I crossed the threshold. The store was lit in the way that heavily implies that it's closed, and nobody was around.
"Dom, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am," I called, starting to peel myself out of my drenched raincoat.
As I struggled out of my coat, I heard him approach.
"I know you're closing soon. Do we still have time?"
I turned to face him. "Him" was not Dominic. It was a stranger.
A tall, handsome, well-dressed stranger.
A stunningly good-looking stranger with gray, piercing eyes, and a jaw like hewn marble. He wore an immaculate silver suit and waistcoat - probably Armani - and his short, black beard was meticulously groomed. A diamond stud shone in his ear.
"You're not Dominic" I said stupidly.
"I'm not Dominic." His voice was like honey. "I'm Ray. I'm Dominic's partner."
"Oh." Was I disappointed? More importantly, had I sounded disappointed?
Of course, it made sense. No straight man could be this well dressed, and I knew that Dominic had been seeing somebody for a while. This must be the lucky man.
Lucky Dominic, more like.
"I'm Constance. Nice to meet you. Is Dom here?" I asked.
"Good to meet you Constance. No. sorry. He told me he messaged you. He had somewhere he needed to be and asked if I'd help you tonight. And to answer your original question, yes - we have time."
"Oh good," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. "I thought you closed at nine."
"We do. Dominic explained your situation. He also said you'd be late."
I blushed at this, that familiar feeling rising up again, and it must have been obvious.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you," he said, laughing. God he had a nice voice.
"Well. He was right I guess," I managed with a forced smile. "I didn't realize I was so predictable." I was annoyed at myself for sounding so self-pitying.
Ray looked at me with those hard, gray eyes for an uncomfortably long time. It felt like he wasn't just looking at me but properly taking me in - analyzing me. It unnerved me, but I also didn't want to interrupt him. I nearly spoke a couple of times but for some reason I felt like it was important to let him speak first.
"I have all night. What do you need?" he eventually said. In retrospect, I think he worded that question very deliberately, but I didn't pay it too much attention at the time. In the presence of this cool, beautiful man I was beginning to regret the disheveled look tactic and wanted to sort my hair and outfit out as quickly as possible.
"I need a new wardrobe. Like, an entire new wardrobe."
I explained the conversation that Dom and I had had over coffee the week before, obviously skipping the part where I basically had a breakdown and cried for the first time in years. All Dom had done was ask how I was doing and, when it dawned on me that nobody had asked me that in months, I couldn't hold it in.
He had been so sweet in trying to console me and cheer me up. When he suggested a full wardrobe revamp, I wasn't convinced at all. I hadn't taken an interest in fashion in a long time. My wardrobe had one theme - business formal. I'd expressed my skepticism but he had insisted. It would be like therapy, he said, only better. Claimed it had never failed to cheer up his friends when they needed it. I eventually agreed, we set a date and time, and here I was - albeit not *quite* on time.
"Alright, why don't you go get yourself dried off in the washroom back there," he said, gesturing toward a door in the far wall. "There are fresh towels. Take all the time you need. I'll start picking out a few things I think might work."
His eyes ran down the length of my body and I felt myself blush again. He was just sizing me up so he could do his job, I knew, but it felt kind of nice to be looked at, even if he was gay. God knows the last time any man looked at my boobs, or my legs, or my ass.
I nodded.
"Alright. When you're ready, meet me upstairs."
He set off between the shelves, starting to pick things up already, and I wondered how he was making decisions. I'd expected him to ask me questions about my style, my preferences, my favorite colors and materials, but he didn't ask a thing. Part of me wanted to watch him work, but I could feel the rainwater dripping from my hair. I shuddered to think how I must look and hurried off to the washroom.
Pretty fucking terrible was the answer.
The washroom was pure luxury. I knew Dominic was kind of a big deal in fashion, but I had no idea his store was like this.
The air was warm and sweet with perfume. The fittings were a cream-colored marble and the furniture - two comfortable looking chairs and a coat rack - was rich ebony, offering a pleasing contrast. There were several plush, white towels folded neatly on the sideboard, along with an array of expensive looking soaps and perfumes. Most impressive of all was the mirror. It looked like something that belonged in Versailles - the frame all carved, ornate gold.
My attention finally fell to the creature looking back at me from this magnificent mirror. Tousled, wet hair hung over my face, but unfortunately didn't cover the flustered, slightly sweaty face below it. I was wearing a practical and very boring gray pant suit with a plain white shirt underneath. The collar of the jacket was sticking up on one side and there were faint damp patches at the armpits.
I almost felt offended on behalf of the mirror. It shouldn't have to work with something as frumpy and bedraggled as me. I couldn't let Ray see me like this again.
I shrugged out of the jacket and undid a couple of buttons on the shirt. There was no blow dryer that I could see so I grabbed one of the towels and set to drying my hair as best I could, giving my armpits a quick blast too to dry them out. With my hair out of the way, I retouched my mascara and lipgloss, picked up an expensive looking glass of perfume called *Surrender* (how fucking pretentious) and gave myself a couple of squirts, and - finally - I took off my heels and set them alongside my discarded jacket and purse. I did all this without once looking in that beautiful mirror - not wanting to dirty it with my sorry state. I took a deep breath before inspecting myself again.
I was actually pleasantly surprised by what I saw. My hair didn't look nearly as bad as I had expected once I'd tied it back up - the rough method of drying had given it a curl that I rather liked. My face had lost most of the breathless ruddiness, and the combination of losing the jacket and loosening the shirt made me look less stern, more relaxed - playful even. I don't quite know why, but even then - having only met him minutes before - I found myself desperately wanting Ray to not see me as the dull, uptight workaholic that most of the men in my life had long ago dismissed me as.
I left my belongings in a neat pile in the corner of that majestic room, and made my way, barefoot, back into the store and up the wide stairs to see what my personal stylist had picked out for me.
The upstairs of the boutique was more like a artist's studio than a store. There were a few rails of clothes dotted around, but the room was wide and mostly empty. The lights were dimmed and a radio was playing what - to my ignorant ears - sounded like jazz.
Ray was positioning a large, white cheval mirror in the center of the room. Alongside the mirror was a clothes rail, hanging from which were the many items that Ray had picked for me. Set a little way back from the mirror was a plushy-looking chaise lounge.
He looked out from behind the mirror as I approached and smiled. He had a beautiful smile.
"Feeling better?" he asked.
I let out a big sigh and nodded, returning his smile as best I could.
"Would you like to see what I've got for you?"
"Sure," I replied, taking a seat on the chaise lounge. It was as soft and comfortable as it looked. "Though I do have a question first."
He raised his eyebrows. "Yes?" he asked.
"You don't really know anything about me, and didn't ask any of the sorts of questions I was expecting downstairs. How did you decide what to pick for me?"
"It's my job," he replied simply, but I guess he could tell from the look on my face that I wasn't satisfied by this answer. "When you do this all the time, you get a *feel* for people. You learn to pick up on small things. Signals. Gestures. Small clues that help you get to the root of what a person is about."
"And that's enough to know what kind of clothes they like?"
"Most of the time, yes, strange as that may sound. You can tell a lot from the clothes a person wears."
