I wear my sunglasses at night,... so I can forget my name while you collect your claim.
The sun shines, reminding me of my need for sunglasses. Some strange string pulls me into a shop far too extravagant for my means. On entering, I’m quickly attended by a well-groomed, young man.
‘What are you after?’ He enquires.
‘Sunglasses. Big. Small is lost on my face,’ I assert, with the confidence of a real consumer.
‘How about these?’ he suggests, pulling some, huge, wrap around, turquoise leather trimmed, glasses from the rack. ‘They go with your eyes.’
‘Ooooh; bad colour,’ I respond, dismissively.
‘We have them in black,’ he pipes, as all good sales persons should, passing a pair to me.
‘Hmm, black: I look far too intimidating in black,’ I laugh, as I slip them on, turning on my heel towards the biggest mirror, into which I try to look sufficiently luxurious to match the glasses. ‘Brown is far more me.’ I comment, truly entering the persona of the discerning consumer.
An older man enters the shop, and seeing my smiling face, asks, ‘You know who you look like?’
‘And who might that be?’ I tease, wondering whose guise I’ve taken on in his eyes. I have this rather odd trait of appearing as a different, familiar face to all sorts of strangers.
‘Bridget Fonda. You know her?’
‘Not personally.’ This is not one I’ve heard before. I wonder how he got from her to me. The only traits that I can think we have in common are slim lips and small tits.
The taller, more handsome sales assistant and his equally handsome customer turn to look my way and comments on Fonda family dynasty are had.
The old geezer continues, looking from me to handsome customer, ‘So, are you two together, then?’
The customer subtly eyes me up, and laughs, ‘I should be so lucky.’
‘No, I’m quite single,’ I throw out, quite lightly, giving him opportunity to act.
My sales assistant has procured the glasses in a shade of brown I know will love my face. They are made for me. But not me. A richer version of me, with silly money to spend on sunglasses. The men all enthuse.
The old man looks mystified by the failure to follow through on the scenario he has so generously set up for handsome man, and comments, ‘Well, I guess you lot are a bit richer than me. Nice glasses; but I can’t afford anything in here. I was looking for something closer to £12.99.’
I smile warmly at him as he leaves the shop, commenting that the prices are a bit of a stretch, to which my sales boy offers me 25% discount. This still leaves the glasses more than twice the price of the last pair I fell for but let slip away as they cost too much. I make polite, ‘need to think about it,’ comment, and leave.
Why are men such wimps when it comes to asking women out? Perhaps they know in advance I’m not the type to found for long on the arm of a man with expensive glasses.