Closing

It had seem like a century had passed since this morning until we finally closed. It was a busy day today, unusually so. I didn't finish for another 45 minutes, so I opened up my cash register and begin to count it.

By the time it came to the end of the day, I had all but forgotten about the interaction with Matthew in the locker room earlier in the morning. I decided that what I had felt was probably nothing more than the shock of being touched, being held, by another human being after been touch starved for so long; I haven't seen my family in almost six months and I live alone. I almost laughed out loud when I realised this about myself - a weird thing to do when you're in the middle of serving a customer - but it's sadly true. I spent the rest of the day analysing and over-analysing my behavior, facial expressions, hand movements, and what I said, trying to make sure that I didn't come across as a freak to Matthew. I came to no conclusions about this, as all I could remember was how my fly was down, and how he noticed it was down, and how he didn't say anything at first, or maybe he didn't notice until he glanced-

"Hey Hon! How was it down here today?" My coworkers voice sliced through me, and my heart almost raced up my throat.

"Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!" She laughed. "I saw you starring off into space, I thought you saw me."

Flustered and catching my breathe, I replied, "Sorry, bit of a busy day and I forgot what number I was up to with the notes." I continue to count the register, hoping my feigned mental blank would get me out of the woods.

"Oh I do that all the time. I wouldn't be able to count past 10 if it weren't for my toes."

I laughed, and lost my count on the 20s, this time for real. "Oh shit, I forgot where I was again."

My coworker wheezed a laugh out, "A mess, a complete mess. I guess I don't need to ask about today then."

I hold up a finger as I finish counting the 20 dollar and the 50 dollar bills.

"Okay, now I'm done," I say. I close the drawer and submit my final count on the registers screen.

"Mathematical genius, who would've known? Did you finish at 7 tonight?" My coworker asks.

"Nah, gotta another half an hour."

"Ahh okay, well tomorrow's my day off, so I'll see later." She walks off, towards the locker room at the other end of the store.

The store is now well and truly empty. Most of the staff have already left, some, like me, have to say back and clean before we can leave for the night. I head to the fitting rooms first, we had a few last minute sales which usually means that the fitting rooms have been turned upside down.

As I walk in I'm surprised at how clean it is, only a few suit jackets hanging up waiting to be put back on the rack, and only one button-up shirt has been balled up and thrown to the corner of one of the fitting rooms. Must be my lucky day. As I'm picking up the shirt, I hear a voice come from the entrance to the fitting rooms.

"Hello? Anyone in?" The voice says.

"Oh sorry! We've just closed for the night," I call out from the room I'm in. I quickly run out, still focused on the shirt I'm now attempting to hang back up. "We're open again at 9-"

I look up and see Matthew at the entrance. I stumble back a little. "Oh it's just you! Sorry, I thought you were a customer," I stutter out.

"Don't apologise, I technically am a customer right now. I was actually hoping you were still in, I need your help finding some new work shirts. I could see that you were busy all day and I didn't want to disturb you," says Matthew, putting his hands on his hips.

My stomach starts to do front flips, back flips, all kinds of acrobatics. He was specifically looking for me to help him. I don't know why this hits me as hard as it does, maybe he felt something in the locker room too? No, you already worked it out that you literally haven't been touched by another human in months, get a grip.

"Of course, I realise it's the end of the day, and if you're busy I can come back some other time-"

"No no, not busy at all. I can clean the floor tomorrow morning." I reply.

"Ah, legend. Thank you!"

"No worries at all. So I'm assuming just a black shirt?"

"Maybe a few."

I walk out of the fitting room, brushing past Matthew, towards our shirt section. I could smell the cologne he was wearing when I walked past, I don't remember him having it on this morning. Maybe too much was happening at once for me to realise. Matthew follows me through the department. It does feel weird to be giving such a personal service in a closed store, I'm not used to the quiet of the empty store or having to not weave in and out of people just to get to the product. We stop not too far from the fitting rooms, in front of an array of black button-up shirts, all different sizes and fits.

"So by the looks of you, I would say you'd fit pretty comfortably in a slim fit, so would you prefer that?" I ask, trying to look him dead in the eyes and not at his body.

"I'm putting my trust in you, so whatever you think will look good," he responds. "Do you have a measuring tape to get my size?"

"Your size? Oh, right... uh, no, it's fine. I can do it by sight." I don't think at this point I can get physically close to this man, it's too soon, even though I've already convinced myself it was nothing.

I take a step back and finally look at his body. He really is in fine shape. The shirt he is wearing now nicely contours his toned arms without making the shirt look like it's too small, and the sleeves perfectly fit his shoulders, which can be hard to do with a man of his shape. The shirt perfectly sculpts his torso down the sides, following his chest and angling down towards his smaller waist. The fabric, and I can see that it's stretch fabric from here, clings to his body across his chest and stomach, but in a tastefully fitted - not tight - way. The shirt doesn't pull at the buttons, especially at the chest where it can often be the most noticeable, but I wondered if he flexed-

I look to his neck, trying to get a read on what his collar size would be. He doesn't have an awfully thick neck some other gym junkies that I've helped, but it's by no means small. His dark olive skin continues to be even on his neck, and I can see the stubble from his face flows halfway down. I can see some veins running up and down the length of his neck, particularly on the sides, the very kissable sides of his neck-

"16 inches around the neck, maybe 15 3/4 depending on the fit, but let's stick with a slim at 16." I say, snapping out of my trance. I can feel my face growing hot.

"You got that from just looking at me?" Matthew says, stunned.

"Well, I could be wrong, but we may as well start from there."

I picked up a size from the rack and race into the fitting room. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing mirror, and my cheeks are flushed. I open up a fitting room and put the shirt on the hook inside. Matthew catches up to me and stands outside the room.

"Alright, let's put this one on and see how it fits. Then we can go from there." I say, walking out of the small cubicle like room.

"Perfect, again, thank you so much for doing this," Matthew says as he enters his room.

I stand directly outside the room, expecting Matthew to close his door and get changed, but he doesn't. He leaves his door wide open and starts to unbutton the shirt he's wearing.

"Oh, you can close the door if you want, just for a bit of privacy." I half whisper.

"It's fine, no one else is here."

Before I can say anything else, his shirt is already off and on the floor, and I can't help but look at his bare body. The first thing I notice is his chest hair, it's more of a stubble right now so I can tell he shaves it. Matthew grabs the shirt I hung up for him and starts to unbutton it. His arms are nicely sculpted, and unexpectedly, his olive skin is pricked with dark freckles from his shoulders all the way down his arms. I can see a few scattered on the back of his hands, I must have missed that earlier. He finally opens up the shirt and swings it around himself, putting both his hands into the sleeves and letting the shirt fall down. I can't help but look at his armpits. They are a lot hairier than the rest of his body, which I find strange considering, but I'm not complaining. I get a brief smell of sweat as he puts his arms down. I feel my knees buckle ever so slightly and I can feel my pants starting to swell. Shit.

I turn around and fiddle with some of the suit jackets that I had meant to take back. God, I hope he didn't see me staring, or at least, thought I was looking at the shirt. I quietly slow down my breathing in an attempt to calm everything down, the kind of trousers I'm wearing are not very forgiving with outlines.

"Spot on," he finally says.

"Good fit?" I say, turning around slowly and finally seeing the shirt on. Matthew is standing in front of the mirror doing up the cuffs. It is a good fit, the sleeves aren't too long and they don't seem to be too tight around his biceps and triceps, his shoulders are sitting perfectly in the shirt, and the middle wraps around his body like it was tailor made. "Oh yeah, it's a really good fit." I continue.

"I guess I'm an easy fit," he laughs. I laugh too, maybe a bit too loud.

"So you like it?"

"I do, but I can feel that it doesn't have a lot of stretch in it, and I just feel like if I'm going to be running around in this all day, some stretch might help with movement."

"Oh yeah, of course. I should have some in your size, one second."

I stride out of the fitting room, happy to get just a little bit of reprieve. God, I've never felt this way about someone before, let alone someone I just met. The hand shake from this morning, that was more than just touch starvation, there is something else going on inside of me.

I find the stretch fitting shirt in his size next to the rack we were at earlier. I make my way back to the fitting rooms, this time unbuttoning the shirt for him. I walk in, looking down at the shirt as I unbutton it.

"So, because it's a stretch fabric, the shirt will actually be a bit tighter than the other one, but it shouldn't affect the size of anything else." I say as I finish unbuttoning the shirt. I've walked right up to him in my peripherals, and as I look up to hand him the open shirt I realise that I'm much closer to him than I intended.

He still has the last shirt on, but he has unbuttoned it completely, showing off the middle of his chest right down his mid-section. I quickly glance at his abs, he isn't ripped but he sure is firm and toned. His skin is even along his stomach, not an imperfection in sight, just his soft dark olive skin and stubble of the shaved body hair. I can almost imagine what it feels like, smooth and warm, the ripples of his abs under my fingers and palms. The only hair he has left mostly unshaved starts from his belly button and continues down past his hips. I can almost imagine what this feels like as well, course but soft, guiding a line down to his-

"It should be fine, I like them a bit tighter anyway," he interrupts.

What felt like an eternity was barely a second, barely noticeable. I look at him directly in his eyes, his ocean blue eyes, which have now turned a bluey-grey with the stores lighting. I hand him the shirt, and turn back around. I don't want to look at him anymore.

I see the shirt I had hung up, ready to put back, before Matthew interrupted. I grab the front of the shirt and start to button it up from the bottom so it hangs properly. I can't help but imagine this is the shirt Matthew is putting on. The shirt in front of my starts to fill with him, his body, his skin, his warmth, his scent. I feel his stomach rise and fall under my hands as I continue to travel up his torso, buttoning up his chest. His chest is-

"Oh, this one feels nice, yeah the stretch will be a lot more comfortable. I think it fits better too," he calls from behind.

I turn around, embarrassed as though he's caught me thinking about him. He's right, it does fit better. It's a tighter fit, and it accentuates his physique quite a bit more that I'm not sure as to whether I'm being selfish in wanting to see his body like this.

"It does fit a bit nicer doesn't it?" I reply. "How's the fabric? I know some people don't like the stretch fabric."

"It feels nice," he says, looking at himself in the mirror. He starts to rub the shirt around his body, feeling the fabric with his hands. I follow his hands as he follows the curves of his arms and chest, and gently smoothing the fabric. His hands become my hands, I can feel what he feels, I'm touching what he's touching. "It's a really smooth fabric, I like how it feels on my body. What do you think?" He continues, turning around to face me.

"Oh, uh-" I fluster. "I think it's a bit tighter than the other one, but the stretch helps to make up for that. It is definitely a more smooth finish, and I personally think it's nicer than a rough fabric like cotton. But yeah, it fits you well, especially across your chest. I sometimes find shirts can pull across big chests, but it's not pulling across yours. It's actually wrapped around your chest and shoulder muscles quite evenly."

"My shoulder muscles?" He questions. Oh shit, why did I say it like that? God, he's going to think I'm a creep.

"Y-yeah," I start, attempting to save face. "You've got quite a big chest and big shoulders, which can be a bit difficult to, uh- fit into a shirt, because they're, uh- um- too big for the shirt. But yours are the perfect size, so the shirt is sitting exactly as it should."

That did nothing but deepen the hole I was already in. Sometimes I need to learn to shut the fuck up. He stares at me with a blank look that I have no idea how to read, but it quickly turns into a sly smirk. He turns back around to face the mirror.

"I agree, it fits well, especially up here." He starts to caress his chest and shoulders again. "Could you grab me a few more of the same?"

"Of course." I practically run out of the fitting room. I need to calm down. Just treat him like any other customer, even though he's a manager and I will be seeing him all the time, I just cant keep embarrassing myself like this.

I grab four more of the same shirt, and slowly head back to the fitting room. I stop outside the entrance to take a few deep breaths before seeing him again, but from where I'm standing I can just see into his open room without him seeing me. He's standing in from of the mirror, shirtless again, rubbing his naked chest with his hand. In one continuous motion, he follows his chest upwards, stroking up his neck and down to his shoulders. He raises his arm, casually flexing it, and looks down at his bulging biceps as he continues to stroke the muscles on his arm. He follows it back down his chest and onto his stomach. He's delicate with his hands, his finger's barely grazing his skin now as he lightly touches the lower part of his torso, below his belly button.

I briskly walk into the fitting rooms, partly to seem like I hadn't seen anything, and partly in the hopes of catching him continue what he was doing. A small part of me was also hoping that he'd feel at least a fraction of the embarrassment I had been feeling every time we've met. As I walk in, he stops almost as quickly as he started but doesn't flinch, as though he had finished already.

"Alright, four shirts here for you," I say, feigning a voice of success from finding the shirts.

"Make it five." He says, bending over (don't look don't look don't look) and picking up the shirt he tried on off the ground.

"Perfect, I'll take these to the register. Take your time."

I walk out of the fitting rooms with four shirts on hangers in one hand, and the fifth shirt draped over my other arm. As I'm heading back to the register, I look over my shoulder to see if he's following me. He's not. I turn back, and bury my face into his worn shirt. I can smell him on this shirt, the warm tones from the cologne he was wearing. I could smell a tinge of saltiness mixed in with his natural musk, his warm sweat, the kind of sweat you can only smell when you are practically on top of someone, the kind of sweat that only appears in the most intimate of areas. The kind of sweat that few will ever smell. It's like hot shakey breath on the back of your neck, like a soft touch around the sides, like a tender hold from underneath.

I put the shirt down on the counter. My lip quivers, and I can feel that my trousers have swelled again. A few deep breaths and I start to fold the shirts one at a time, I can't let him see me like this.

Matthew saunters out of the fitting rooms, his shirt back on, but he's conveniently forgotten to button up the top three buttons, exposing his chest. He looks like he's just walked off the beach. When he stops at the register he doesn't say anything, but I can tell that he's staring at me. The tension between us is palpable, but I have no idea if he can even feel it. I finish folding the last of his shirts.

"You're a good folder," he finally says.

"Nimble fingers," I reply almost immediately.

He pays, and I print a copy of his receipt to send to payroll for his staff uniform reimbursement. I put his shirts in a bag and hand the bag off to him.

"There we are, packed up and ready to go," I announce.

"Thank you so much, Blake, I really appreciated you taking the time to help me," he replies, accepting the bag. He's still looking at me with a knowing grin. I'd hate to know what he knows, but I so desperately need to know before it burns me alive. "And thanks for walking me through the entire process and picking up on all the smaller details, I really admire anyone who services me like you did, makes me feel special," he winks.

I stop breathing. Why did he word it like that? Is he suggesting something? Or am I reading into it too much? God, why is this man so cryptic?!

"I'll leave you to it, see you tomorrow!" Matthew struts off, bag in hand. "And check your fly before you leave home tomorrow morning!" He calls from behind.

I awkwardly laugh, because what else am I suppose to do? "See you," I quiver back.

I've never felt this way before, no man has every made me feel every emotion all at the same time. I cannot tell if he's doing this on purpose, or if this is just what he's like, but I can tell that he's catching onto me. I was clumsy with my second-too-long glances, I stumbled with the wrong wording, I made it too obvious.

With all that being said he's not telling me to back off, but I can't tell if he's inviting me closer into the den.