“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt transformed by clothes, like you were talking about,” I said eventually, as soon as the song was over. I stared down at the bar, feeling a little shaky, but determined to get the conversation back on track. “It sounds nice. I wish sometimes that I had…” I waved a hand. “More of a fashion sense. If I could express myself better that way. But,” I shrugged and looked down at myself, at my black t-shirt and black jeans, “I pretty much only wear this.”

She took her hand off mine then. She put her glass, which she had been holding with her other hand, down on the bar. And when I finally looked at her again, her eyes had changed, gone from soft and sympathetic to all sharp and assessing. I quaked a little, in anticipation or self-consciousness or both.

“I think you do have a fashion sense, in a way.” She smoothed both of her palms over my shoulders, down the sleeves of my shirt. “I love this pocket, first of all. And I associate you with dark colors like these, with that black jean jacket you normally wear. And the fact that I can make any association in my head, of you with clothes, means you do have a look. Fashion doesn’t have to be fancy.”

Her hands traveled down my sides, toward the hem of my shirt, the waistband of my jeans. It was possible I stopped breathing.

She knew my black jean jacket.

She remembered details about me. Like she had noticed me before tonight.

One small thing clicked into place.

“Your jeans could be better, yes,” she said, cocking her head, “But honestly, jeans—pants in general—are hard for a lot of bodies, for a lot of reasons, even though we’re all conditioned to wear them.”

I let out another rough sigh, partly because of the truth of that, partly because her hands were still resting on my sides.

“I have a hard time figuring out what to wear for work, most of the time,” I admitted. “I know I should look like a semi-put together adult, and I don’t...know how to do that. Khahkis and dress shirts are kind of a nightmare, and I...don’t know what else to do.”

“So what do you wear to work?”

I looked back down at myself and winced. “Um. A nicer shirt, but pretty much...this?”

“Hmm. Well, first of all, you don’t have to wear khakis, Sam. No one should have to wear khakis. You simply need to find the right pants and shirts, if that’s what you want to wear.”

She opened her mouth and then snapped it shut.

She picked up her gin and tonic again, chomping rather aggressively on the tiny straw, and stared back toward the dance floor.