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“Hey. You’ve met Shiloh. The little man.” She gestures to the indeed little man next to her, now licking his paw, never once breaking my eye contact.
“I do recall meeting a cat,” I tell her stiffly.
“Well, if you’re taking me shopping, we should probably stop at the store on the way home, too. Jerry wouldn’t let me stop for food, and she wouldn’t let me put his litter box in her precious car. Something about the smell not coming out of the seats for the next ten years. Like I’m about to dump dirty litter all over them or something.” She rolls her eyes and scoffs as if someone not wanting a used litter box in the back of their car is the worst thing in the world.
I can tell she hasn’t been around car people.
“We can stop,” I smile, moving into the room and taking a seat on the end of the bed. I reach out to pet Shiloh, but he narrows his eyes at me, his little ears falling back as he looks at me like I’m the scum of the earth.
How one cat can pack that much emotion into one look, I’ll never be sure.
Shaking my head, I look at Sydney. “Are you ready then?”
She looks down at the dirty jeans she’s wearing before pulling on her thin, form-fitting white top. “I think so. I don’t have to look too fancy, right?”
“No, you’re fine.”
That’s half a lie. Where we’re going, she should probably look a little more decent. I’m almost positive she had plenty of nicer clothes back at home. Jerry just wanted to embarrass her.
* * *
I’ve never liked these places. The white walls, the gold accents, the smell of overpriced perfume being pumped through the walls.
I really don’t understand why someone else couldn’t bring her here.
Sydney has spent a total of one hour in just thisonestore. While I would have preferred pulling things off of hangers, checking out, and figuring out what fits later, Sydney has decided that she wants to truly make an event of it.
I consider myself a fairly patient man, but it’s running thin.
I lean back in the seat, draping my arm over the back as Sydney steps out of the changing room in yet another all-black outfit.
“Are you allergic to color or something?” I ask dully.
She looks at me through the mirror as she adjusts the sleeves of her blouse. “I just like the color. Plus, I feel like it fits the theme, you know?”
“What theme?” I ask, leaning forward.
Her eyes meet mine through the mirror. “You know,” she says, her head tilting, the glint in her wide green eyes almost charming.
“I’m not sure I do.”
She looks around, making sure no one else is around us. “Spies,” she mouths, shrugging.
My jaw hangs on the floor.
“You know that we’re spies, not fucking ninjas, right? You know those are two separate things?”
“Spies wear all black, too!”
“In the goddamn movies!”
“You mean to tell me that Mission Impossible isn’t a good depiction of espionage?”
“They don’t even always wear black in Mission Impossible.”
She smirks. “How weird is it watching Mission Impossible while being a spy? Like what predicament did you end up in that had you watching that.”
She’s soaggravating.
