I remain disinterested in clothes. Except for suits.
The buying of the suits months ago was done with one goal: make Marie think of me in suits, which—according to her own admission—were synonymous with non-platonic thoughts.
I now know—now that we’d discussed everything after the friend-zoning in great detail—that she’d been having non-platonic thoughts about me well before I’d worn my first suit, and that the suits hadn’t been the catalyst for her feelings.
But I still wore them.
Because Marie liked me in suits. She looked at me differently. She looked longer. And showing her she’s worth the effort is important. She is important to me.
“Do you even need a new tie?” She stepped away, regarding me with suspicion. “Didn’t we just buy you four last month?”
“I don’t recall.” Obviously, that was a lie. “We have the faculty dinner next week and I need something for that.”
“None of the other ones will suffice?”
“I should make a good impression. Most of them still think I’m an undergrad.”
I’ve come to understand clothes matter to most people because society decrees how a person is ‘packaged’ reflects the internal values, abilities, and personality of that person. This packaging is often called ‘personal expression.’ Since deciphering this, I’ve resented the concept of personal expression.
As a child, what did my clothes say about me?
They said: I’m irritated that you people want to judge me by what I’m wearing and therefore I think you’re really fucking lazy.
But they also said: My housekeeper does my laundry; she irons everything, including my jeans and T-shirts. My gardener likes grunge bands and always brings me concert tees. My driver thinks I should wear belts with shorts. And my nanny picks out my clothes.
However, when I became a teenager, I realized actually not giving a shit and wanting to look like I didn’t give a shit were two very different style choices.
Funny how that happens. Funny how, in order to project to the world who you are, you’re often required to behave in an opposite way. But I digress.
My disinterest in clothing was the catalyst for my first AI. Instead of allowing myself to be forced into spending precious minutes (daily) to ensure the clothes I wore reflected my internal values, abilities, and personality, I developed an algorithm to do it for me.
Using data available via image search and defined parameters regarding individuals whose style I wished to mimic, the program created a virtual closet of clothes. I sent the closet to my mother’s personal shopper and had her purchase the items in my size. The housekeeper then arranged the purchased goods (complete outfits) on hangers in my actual closet. Instead of thinking about what I should wear, I outsourced that decision based on coded procedures.
Because I was disinterested, because I desired to save time.
The unintended consequence of this little time saver was a big cash payout. I showed it to the computer science mentor my senior year of high school. He showed it to a friend. That friend showed it to a group of angel investors. They wanted it, but not a teenager as a CEO.
So I sold the program upon my eighteenth birthday, thereby allowing me to sever all connection to my parents. I haven’t spoken to either of them in twelve years. I’m not sure they’ve noticed.
Thomas—my shrink—told me their disinterest in me had everything to do with their own psychosis and nothing to do with my value as a person. I believe him, primarily because he’s the expert. He has a Ph.D. And even though I still think of behavioral science as a soft science, the guy knows his shit.
Secondarily, I believe him because I respect him, because he is both intelligent and good. All data indicates he is to be believed.
But, again, I digress.
I pushed my fingers into my pockets, a trick I’d learned early on when in close proximity to Marie. It helped me keep my hands to myself. I made a mental note to never again shop on a Saturday. The store was busy and I couldn’t touch her where and how I wanted. Because of laws.
My left hand connected with a small velvet box within my pocket. I fiddled with it, twisting it, running my finger along the seam.
The box.
It had been in the pocket of whatever pants I was wearing since the weekend after Kerry and Marcus had visited. Since Marie told me she loved me. Not wanting to plan something cheesy and elaborate, I’d been waiting for the right moment.
She shook her head and returned the tie to the table. “I think you have a tie habit.”
I shrugged, not denying it, instead allowing a slow meaningful smile to claim my mouth. I did have a tie habit and we both knew it. Ties were versatile in their applied uses. As an example, I had more ties in her nightstand drawer than I had in my closet.
“You’re bad.” Her smile mirrored mine, though her cheeks were now pink.
“You like me bad.” I bent forward to brush my lips against hers.
She gave a wistful sigh. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” I let her tug my hand from my pocket and pull me towards the exit.
“You’re taking me to lunch, and then home. Fiona gave me a new cake recipe and I’ve been wanting to try it.”
That had me standing straighter and my mouth watering. When it came to Marie’s cooking, I was a Pavlovian dog. “What kind of cake?”
“You’ll see.”
I rearranged our hands so that our fingers were woven together. “If it’s her coconut cake, we should definitely buy a new tie.”
“Why?”
“I’ll have to tie you up until you agree to marry me.”
She laughed and time stopped, just a little.
Pragmatically, I knew it was impossible for time to stop just a little. Time is relative, and can be slowed—theoretically—but cannot be halted. Not outside of a particle collider experiment gone horribly wrong and/or a black hole.
But when Marie laughed, when her mouth curved in a perfect arch, when her eyes became the combined colors of hydrogen on the visible light spectrum, when the manifestation of happiness as perfect music passed her lips, then time stopped.
Just a little.
I’ve never been a funny guy, not purposefully. Not until Marie. Not until I heard her laugh for the first time. Everything about it was addictive. You have to want to talk to people in order to have an occasion to be funny, and there were only two things I enjoyed as much as talking to Marie.
One involved her cooking, the other involved her body, and both involved eating.
“I know what I like.” I shrugged, licking my lips, poised to pounce as soon as she finished pressing the white shavings to the frosting.
I have no shame when it comes to—
“Coconut.” Her tone was flat but also teasing, and she lifted an eyebrow at me.