Even in his attempt to block out the conversation (which hadn’t been as successful as he would have liked), it wasn’t lost upon Jim, a lad with a critical eye, that Rachel’s head had been turned in his direction for seconds which seemed prolonged, before wrenching away. And it was hardly lost upon him, the directional, wistful, somewhat teasing expression his mother had cast his way as he skittered between kitchen and bedroom.
Pushing his fists against the hoodie pouch, Jim instinctively quickened his pace - but unconsciously, for in realizing he had inadvertently passed by his companion, he would have broke his walk with a sudden stop, but gradually ceased in his saunter, casually glancing over his shoulder and saw that she was patting and situating the fluffy arrangement the hedge of hair seated on her head.
Dishevelment of this degree in a woman was in general attractive; but Jim, who had never questioned his orientation, and had always born in confidence his natural attraction to the female animal, had, with the irritants of temper and situation, and constipation with his mother, convinced himself that he’d little time to entertain the prospects of a girlfriend. Not entirely for his distinction, but particularly in such a neighborhood, chance and desire were grim, slim.
Yet he took silent watch, and not admiration, quite - but critical, composed study of her figure. His eyes caught the arch of her back, the stretch of her ribs, and casually traced her arch down to the hips where in the angle of her half facing him, he saw a distinct absence of definition. He found then what was to be expected of a suburban sheltered flower - a regulated lifestyle, and though the eagerness of her manners impressed otherwise, Jim conjectured a good probability of tenacity. She had a decided vegetarian figure. Fine as a wishbone - petite, for all intensive purposes, and short enough that she wouldn’t be unevenly proportioned. Even honing on that particular aspect of her small breasts, in easily comparing them to apples - perhaps a little bigger - reminded of the cultural hysterics concerning the matter of size as worth, and still more, yielded in stream of consciousness a more unwelcome thought. That myth of a woman’s girth that Jim had so often heard in relation to the cunt, so industriously chortled over in the huddles of panty-snatchers he passed on the streets - Jim, dragging his fingers down from his eye, dismissed with a sigh of exhaustion, and a subconscious sense of nobility gained through a respect for women.
Old ladies. Snatching her bald. - She was a worry wart. That was cute.
He didn’t move to explain until she seemed near finished.
"Yeah, ‘s fine. N’ no, you don’t. I dunno. They might. - Look, it was a joke…H’ didn’t wanna chance it. You got a lotta hair…Girls around here are jealous uh that shit, ‘kay…”
Not too keen on delving into expounding on the ridiculous concept of ghetto-fabulous, Jim decided that he had watched these proceedings long enough. With a fleeting roll of his eyes and a quiet sigh of impatience, Jim advanced toward her, muttering, “Look, you can take care of that later, it looks fine.”
Taking a raised wrist, he proceeded to pull her down the hall, adding,”I didn’t think you’d wanna tango with the freaks.C’mon, let’s just go.”
If not for the timid confidence of constitution, Jim would have otherwise included himself in the category (and in the house of self-worth, did still).
The compliment to his mother he replied with sufficient vagueness. “Thanks.”
The query as to his state of mind however, went unanswered.
The walk to the fish market was of a twenty-minute duration. The quest for dinner itself went virtually un-harassed by encounter; and was thankfully uneventful, save for the inconvenience of having to wait an additional hour, and the attraction of Rachel’s mop forcing the endurance of looks, and the growing discomfort of close quarters and lack of room - the liberation from which Jim couldn’t help but unleash a cry of once-inhibited agony when they at long last were back outside.
Dinner itself was not entirely awkward. Most of it was passed in a resumption of that discussion which had been interrupted. Jim was hardly dismayed by his position as third-wheel, and ate in silence.
It was a quarter past eight by the time the table was cleared, and Sarah continued to engage her guest. Without the slightest argument, but with a look of assignment, Jim languidly took up the chore of washing dishes from both dinner and the stack of bowls from earlier. No-Face chose the office of keeping his master company and seated himself beside the sink and spectate the notably medium speed by which Jim washed and rinsed the dishes, in succession of glasses, silverware, then china; and the gentleness with which he handled them from scrubbing, rinsing, to rack.
There Jim tarried, buying his mother time, his thoughts divided between thoughts of his own and snippets of their discourse, at times hushed by the quiet roar of Wheel of Fortune.
It was half past when Jim finished. Gripping the edge of the counter, he rested his buttocks against it, then folded his arms over his stomach as he watched. The thought of changing into his sleepwear ever increasing as the minutes eased on, it was not until Sarah excused herself to the bathroom, with every happy assurance of returning, that Jim pushed his weight off the counter, giving it a groan, and approached Rachel, standing before her akimbo. Blocking out the television.
With a nudge of his chin. “Call your dad. - Tell him you’re spending the night,” he mumbled, but presumptuously advised her.
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