One last spritz of hairspray, a pout at the mirror and I'm done. Looking pretty damned good, even if I do say so myself. Smiling, I turn my attention to the array of scarves laid out on my bed. Someone once told me it was possible to have too much going on, but I'm not sure I believe them. Surely it's not possible to over-accessorise? After much deliberation, I settle on a deep green chiffon scarf, an almost perfect match to the stone in the antique ring adorning my finger (found in Naboo's room a few days ago, must remember to tell him I've borrowed it). I admire the way the glitter in the scarf seems to emphasize the shimmer of the highlighter playing across my cheekbones, drawing attention away from the dark shadows under my eyes, a telltale sign of another night on the town. I congratulate myself on my skill with makeup; even under the closest scrutiny the signs of exhaustion are barely visible. Tugging on a pair of my smaller heeled chelsea boots (my feet ache like hell, I'm guessing there was dancing involved last night although I don't actually remember) I take a deep breath and head downstairs, ready to face the day.
Even with his back to me, trying his best (still pretty terrible) sales patter at a poor unsuspecting customer, he has still heard me enter the shop. I can tell this by the tension in his shoulders, the firm set of his jaw, the impatient sigh that escapes his lips. The barely disguised anger will erupt the moment the customer leaves which, by the look on her face, will be imminent. I contemplate running back upstairs before he has chance to shout at me, locking the door of my room and hiding under the covers, playing out a daydream scene where he is pleased to see me, where everything I do doesn't irritate him, where things are like they used to be. Unfortunately, I am so lost in formulating my escape plan that I miss my chance and he is upon me, brown eyes blazing.
"So, you've decided to grace us with your presence then? It was barely worth you bothering," he snapped.
Glancing at the clock, I sighed with relief.
"It's only 12.50. It's not THAT late, I've been later…"
"Just because you've been more than 3 hours late for work before, it does not mean that when you're ONLY 3 hours late, I'm supposed to be impressed! And anyway, it's not 12.50, it's 1.50. Clocks went forward this weekend, which you would have known if you hadn't spent the entire weekend in a drunken stupor or with your head down the toilet! And now, thanks to you, I'm going to be late for an important appointment."
With that, he stormed out of the shop, slamming the door behind him, leaving me standing open-mouthed, staring at the empty space he had just occupied. He hadn't even let me explain. Not that I had a real reason to be late. Well, nothing more than the hangover and the amount of time it had taken me to look presentable but still, I could have come up with some elaborate excuse. He wouldn't have believed me, of course. He never did. In fact, he never had done, but back then he used to laugh at my excuses for being late. He even kept a book with the best ones written down and I had seen him, when he didn't think anyone was looking, reading back through them and chuckling to himself. They used to amuse him. I used to amuse him. But now, I just annoyed him and I didn't know what I could do to make things right. I had tried staying out of his way, spending my weekends at Leroy's, in clubs, at parties, spending the night with strangers rather than going home to see the look of disgust on his face. That was, when he actually looked at me. Mostly he avoided me too. In the shop, he was forever busy with stationery village or stock taking, anything which meant he could turn his back to me. That hurt. Especially after I had spent so many hours choosing my outfits, hoping at least one would make him smile. He used to like my clothes, they made him laugh. Of course, he always told me that they looked awful, that I looked ridiculous, but I could tell he was joking. There was warmth in those brown eyes then, a smile playing on his lips. Now the warmth had gone. His eyes were as cold as the winter wind howling, his frosty demeanour matched by the icy glint of the pavement outside. I longed for spring to come.