Lunch Break
I’m refilling the Cokes in the refrigerated case when he walks down the aisle.
He’s older than me by a good ten years or so, I’d guess, and his skin is the delicate shade of decadent milk chocolate—just the way I like my guys. He wears pale linen slacks with a crease ironed down the center of each leg and a sharp blazer open to reveal a thin, pink, silk shirt that clings to him when he moves. Just by looking, I can see he’s not wearing an undershirt because when he turns, the silk is pulled taut along his slim torso and a hard n****e strains the fabric.
Oh my. I freeze, hands full of soda bottles that don’t quite make it into the case, legs and arms pimpling with goose bumps from the refrigerated air. I’m staring, I know it, but I can’t look away.
The light-colored clothing
