Satoru, who’s clearly studied what makes women take a second glance and executes it perfectly. He’s performative, the epitome of performative.
The same Satoru you’ve briefly met and saw go into the same record store twice this week.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about how the music industry really failed female artists in the seventies,” Satoru says, not looking up from the Fleetwood Mac record he’s examining with theatrical concentration. His wired earbuds dangling perfectly against his jacket, the black one that makes his shoulders look more enticingly broad.
You don’t look up from the r&b section, not batting an eye. “Have you now.”
“Like, take Stevie Nicks. Great songwriter, but she was constantly overshadowed by the guys of the band. It’s systemic, really.” He runs his fingers through his hair, fixing a couple strands in such a practiced way it makes your jaw clench.
“Mhm.” You flip aggressively through the vinyls.
“I actually just finished reading Michelle Obama’s autobiography–”
“Oh my god.” you finally turn to face him. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?”
He blinks, not a coherent thought forming in his head. “Practice what?”
“This whole…” You gesture vaguely at his entire frame. “The feminist awakening bit.” That’s when you do a once over at what he’s wearing.
And Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s wearing a Carthartt jacket over a flannel shirt, light blue almost-baggy jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of clogs that tie it all together. You look up at him and his wired earbuds with scorn that it almost makes him think you’re going to choke him with it.
“Did you google ‘how to appeal to women’?”
His mouth quirks up. “Are you saying it’s working?”
The worst part is the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he can see right through your irritation and the sound of the fluttering in your chest when he’d bent over earlier to reach the top of a poster shelf.
“I’m saying you’re a fraud.”
“Fraud,” he repeats, stepping closer. The Fleetwood Mac record still in his hands. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m shopping.”
“You bought that Revoal record twenty minutes ago,” His eyes flick to the bag by your feet. “But you’re still browsing. Still listening to me talk about systemic oppression in the music industry.”
Your face heats. “Maybe I just really like r&b.”
“Maybe.” he’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne–something expensive and subtle that he definitely researched.
The record store suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The soft music playing overhead seems louder.
You look at him, really look. The practiced charm, the calculated aesthetic, the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to read your mind. All of it designed to make women want him. That he’s different.
The terrible thing is, it’s working.
“You’re insufferable,” you say finally.
“Look, I know what this is. You know what this is. But I also know seventeen different musical and state of the art things we can talk about, and I tip really well at restaurants.”
You snort despite yourself. “Wow. What a catch.”
“Right?” He leans against the poster bin. “What do you say? Let me take you to dinner.”
You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your options. He stares back at you, completely shameless. He knows your answer.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“One dinner. If you bring up the wage gap before appetizers get to the table, I’m leaving.”
Satoru's grin widens. But he makes no promises about dessert.
