Free Fashionistas by Lynn Messina Page B

screaming to the week before Valentine’s Day. He was there to pick up his sister. But it’s not a superpower. Or if it is, then it’s a silly power, the sort someone thought up after all the good ones were taken. I’m like a Wonder Twin without Gleek and the mass appeal of seventies kitsch.
    “There must be some way to harness your power,” she added, with a laugh. She is only half joking. “Like, maybe we can rent you out by the hour to women who want to know before they expend all that time and energy if their relationship is going to go anywhere. Ooh, maybe we can get large groups of women to gather with their men in one place, like Tupperware parties. We’ll line them up and have you go down the row to see who you are attracted to.” She gave me a considering look, as if I were there in the trenches with her, devising a business plan. But I wasn’t. I was in the real world where my superpower isn’t good for anything but pain and disappointment. “Then we’d have to charge by the man, I suppose, although we will, of course, offer volume discounts.”
    Maya rattled on in the same vein for several minutes more, discussing T-shirt designs and Oprah appearances, but I was no longer listening. I was no longer paying attention, because a procession of former boyfriends was marching through my head with considerable force. Michael, who was unable to commit to a green banana. Scott, who refused to even use the word date. Ethan, who always called me Jevig, after his old girlfriend Jennifer. Dwight, Thaddeaus, Kevin, Rob. It was a long parade of also-rans. “New topic,” I said, taking the napkin away from her. She was sketching our logo—cupid with a crossbow aimed at his own heart—on a napkin.
    But I’m thinking of Maya’s words now. I’m recalling her scathing business plan now because of Alex Keller’s sandybrown hair and his light green eyes and his welcoming smile. I’m instantly attracted and have enough sense to know that this cannot be good.

Man and Myth
    I ’m unprepared for Alex Keller’s enthusiastic welcome. I’ve come here straight from work, despite reservations and other things I’d rather be doing, and I’m all ready to sweet-talk my way into his apartment. That he would simply open the door and invite me in is not on a list of possible outcomes, and I stare at him for several seconds uncomprehendingly.
    “You’re here,” he says, grinning widely. “Great. Come in.” He’s wearing tan cutoffs with a maroon T-shirt that says Springfield Civic Center Ice Crew. The shirt is old and torn and looks like some ancient papyrus scroll that will disappear into a cloud of dust if you touch it. He is barefoot. “You’re a little early but I’m almost ready. Please sit down.”
    Alex Keller’s living room is sparse—dark blue couch, thirteen-inch TV, aged telephone stand—and is dominated by a recently refinished wood floor hidden partially by a small light blue area rug. Since my host is gesturing to the couch, I walk toward it. I walk toward it and notice as I get closer that its diagonal position has created a storage space for an assortment of small appliances, including an iron, a blenderand an old-fashioned rotary telephone. The jerry-built closet leads me to conclude that he, like Anna, doesn’t have closets. I admire his bravery. Catercorners are the provenance of the rich and you don’t often see catercornered bookshelves and sofas outside of magazine pictorials, the sort that Fashionista specializes in. You have to own a five-story town house in order to be able to spare the floor space the arrangement requires.
    “Quick should be back any minute now,” he says, carrying sneakers and socks into the kitchen, where he sits down on a wooden folding chair. My perspective affords me a clear view of his kitchen with its black-and-yellow wallpaper and pint-size fridge, and I watch him pull on his socks, the muscles in his arms bunching in response to the activity. Alex Keller has