Adapt (I)

TJR Garcia © 2020

SCARLET

“It has to be practical.” Boe barks when I hold up a lime green t-shirt.

I turn the shirt to look at it. It is stretchy and cool. The cotton is strong. It is the definition of practical. “What’s wrong with it?”

His forehead corrugates. “Are you serious? Maybe if I if want to be spotted from three miles away.”

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. You could blend into a rainforest easy.”

“It would glow in the dark.”

I sigh and rehang the shirt. “Well, that’s the last shirt in the shop, and everything you have in your hand is black.”

He nods. “Exactly. Black is versatile.”

“Black looks like you’re up to something. And it is practically the uniform of hunters. ‘Therians’ can still spot you from three mile away.”

“Black blends in. It hides blood easily. It makes me practically invisible at night.”

“And it makes you look like you spend you free time contemplating societies eventual corrosion. Which, if that’s what you are going for then good for you. But somehow I don’t think it is...”

“You are wearing all black right now.”

I look down at my black skater dress and black pallet flats. “Yeah, but at least I don’t look like I just came out of a terrible nineties Grunge music video.”

“Fine, what should I wear?” He drops everything on the floor.

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to be a baby.” I bend and pick up everything. “Get these but get a few civilian clothes as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

I pick up a grey shirt with a red print on it and chuck it at him. “Not black.”

He stretches the fabric to look at the print. “I’m not wearing-oh wait, no. This one is fine.”

My nostrils flare. His mood swings are getting on my nerves.

Half an hour later, I manage to get Boe to buy three not-black shirts. When he gets to the counter, he puts on his classic smirk and participated in friendly chat with the petite mousy brunette check-out girl. She tries to keep her head down, presumably because she is embarrassed to be seen in her unisex uniform of a button-down shirt and shapeless trousers. Nevertheless, she responds well to his flirting. She doesn’t seem to realize that I am even standing there.

Once he collects the receipt, giving her quick wink, we walk out through the sliding doors.

“Hey, why are you walking so quickly?”

I am about three paces ahead of him before I turn. “No reason. I just want to get home.”

“I thought we would go for some coffee.”

I turn to fully face him and drop the plastic shopping bags at my sides. “Don’t we have some HQ stuff to do? You know, the reason why you are still here?”

His brow furrows, but his smirk rises slightly. “What’s this about?”

My lips tighten and my arms automatically cross my chest. “I don’t think that it is entirely appropriate to shop and go for coffee when your purpose is to enlighten me on the various aspects of Head Quarter life.”

His smirk widens. “You’re jealous.”

“What?” What the hell could I be jealous of?

He steps closer to me. My first instinct is to step back, but I resist. “You are jealous because I was flirting with the checkout girl.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He bites his lip playfully and the redness in my cheeks flares hot. I try to suppress the warring messages that my body is giving me-the prickling hairs on my neck and the heat in my chest. “I see. Was it because you were just standing there, and she didn’t even notice you? Or has it got more to do with me?” Boe proposes.

I stare at him, dazzled. “No... Neither...” My confusion is soon replaced by anger. “You know what, carry your own bags.”

He raises one eyebrow at me. “Sure.” He stands unbearably close, then bends to pick the bags up from the ground. One part of me wants to flatten him to the cement. The other part wants to put as much distance between us as possible.

And another part wants grab the collar of his jacket and let our bodies meet.

I smother that thought with a wet cloth.

Before I can do any of the above, he straightens. His dark eyes glow with satisfaction, obviously noticing the effect he has on me. And just like that, the fire swirling in my gut is extinguished. Nothing like condescension to get rid of unwanted feelings.

He steps back, the wild smugness fading from him features. “Now, how about that coffee, Miss Grumpy?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, but only if the conversation is strictly about my training.” I say, attempting to keep up my line of argument.

“Sure,” he repeats.