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greets him more solicitously than usual. I
imagine this man is more promising than the typical customer. Then
again, any man or woman whom can afford to shop here must be
promising in some manner or another. His looks probably don’t hurt
his chances either.
    Cheryl’s voice is a splash of cold
water to my face. “Taylor!” She beckons me to her by curling her
fingers hastily. There is a pressing look on her face while the
customer’s eyes linger on a table of merchandise to the left. I
practically fling the shirt aside and stride towards her. I soon
realize my mistake. I pivot just as quickly and return to fix the
shirt and lay it neatly on the stack of sweaters. Cheryl’s face
sinks into her hand as she smacks her forehead. I pray my hair is
acceptable. I pray my lipstick isn’t on my teeth. Is my liner
smudged?
    “Taylor, this is David
Charleston,” Cheryl says. I know the name immediately. Charleston’s
name is a hot topic on talk radio, which I listen to in the
mornings on the way to Cutting
Edge . He plans to run for senator. He was
top of his class at Yale and ran a series of successful businesses
after Harvard Business School. Now, here in New York City, he owns
one of the most expensive brownstones in the Upper East Side. The
living marvel fixes me in a dashing grin and I can basically feel
my knees knocking. I assume my best smile and take his outstretched
hand for a shake.
    “Hello,” I say politely.
    “Hello to you, my dear,” he
banters back. His grip is strong and yet I hope it is only a
fraction of his real power. His cordial Hello might as well have been
a You’re coming with me .
    Because yes sir, yes I am.
    “Mr. Charleston needs a suit for a
dinner party,” she continues. “You will be assisting him this
afternoon.” I blink. Cheryl flashes me an austere, wide eyed look.
It all comes racing back to me.
    “Of course,” I remark.
“Right this way, sir.” I gesture down the aisle. I escort
Charleston to our men’s dress section. I dare not chance a glance
back at Cheryl. I can only imagine the seething expression of
blatant irritation and If you screw this
up, you’re gone gone gone! on her stern
face. “What style are you looking for?” I question him.
    Charleston briefly describes his
preferences in terms of color, cut, fit, and brand. When I ask for
his measurements, as many customers are uncomfortable with those
being taken in the store, he asks me to take them. I am screaming
and swooning and squealing inside. Fireworks are happening. To top
it off, he tells me that his personal trainer has him on a
different workout regimen and that many of his shirts are growing
snug across the chest and shoulders. (As if he needs a reason to
explain himself…) If his personal trainer ever wants a day off, I
would be happy to give him a workout.
    If it were up to me, I would fit him
into the tightest, thinnest fabric I could.
    I wrap the measuring tape around his
shoulders, his waist, and his hips. I kneel, tack the end of the
tape to the floor beside the inner arch of his shoe, and measure
his pants to the seam of the crotch. My hand inadvertently brushes
against the very thing the pants are meant to conceal. Surely, my
cheeks are a putrid shade of purple. I apologize, calling humor to
my voice and a playful cringe to my face. He merely chuckles and
assures me it’s alright. If I am not mistaken, there is a spirited
gleam in his eyes that suggests he is the opposite of offended. Is
he into me?
    Because that would be
fantastic!
    I stand, ask him to please wait here
one moment, and stride out of the fitting room. I make little
effort to mask the spring in my step. I collect several dress suits
from the racks: a black, and navy blue, and a tan. Granted,
Charleston did not mention this lighter color. But I can picture it
on him. And if I can picture a color on someone, it usually works
very well.
    He undresses and dresses in the
privacy of a fitting room while I wait outside. It is