Tempus by Tyra Lynn

continue?  I was being nice , really.  I wasn’t wasting their time, and I wasn’t wasting mine either.
    The first and only guy who had ever broken my heart was Steve.  That thought brought me back to the present and the cause of my nostalgic stroll through ex-boyfriend land.  Steve, though I hated to admit it, was still a good-looking guy.  If I were completely honest, he was better looking now than back when I had my crush on him.  He had started working out a couple of years ago, and though he wasn’t exceptionally tall, his muscles made him look huge.
    He still had short, spiky blonde hair, almost white on the tips.  His green eyes seemed even greener today, and they were shaped like cat eyes, turned up a little at the outer corners.  His eyelashes were dark, much darker than his hair, as were his eyebrows.  Blondes weren’t my type, but as far as blondes go, he was probably the best looking one I knew, beside Claire the Queen.  And Alecia .

CHAPTER V
    Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.
    —Voltaire
     

 
     
    The thought of Alecia brought me back to reality.  I had to have been imagining things; Steve could not have been flirting with me.  Next to Alecia, I still looked like that thirteen-year-old goofy kid that had tried to kiss him on the swing.  That one thought settled things in my mind and put me back on track.  Shopping.  New clothes.  My phone! 
    I hopped up from the chair, placed the book back on the shelf, and went out into the mall.  I passed the first couple of stores and decided where I would go first.  I found the little kiosk I was looking for, tried out a couple of phone cases, and settled on one that suited me—black leather with plain black stitching.  I liked black.
    From there I found my way to a clothing store I had never even set foot in.  It was all the rage, and everyone who was anyone shopped there, or so I had heard.  I didn’t like most of the stuff, but a couple of things caught my eye.  I picked out a few pairs of skinny jeans and some ‘jeggings’ to try on, a cute little black and red corset vest, a black lace pull-over tank, a gray racer back sleeveless cardigan top with lace on the bottom, several other girly tops that caught my eye—stuff I normally would never wear. 
    I changed from outfit to outfit, checking myself in the mirror each time, making two piles.  On the right were my keepers; on the left were my wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-ins.  I was surprised that the bigger pile was the keepers for a change.  This is where I needed Mom.  Mom was a girly girl, and she had wanted me to be a girly girl.  Every school picture I had was a girly girl picture, until after .
    I tried to imagine myself through Mom’s eyes.  What would she pick?  I wandered out of the dressing room with the keepers and browsed the racks.  All the lacy things jumped out at me, pastel colors, frilly and feminine.  I groaned internally.  A makeover I could do, but frilly pastels and I did not get along anymore.  I could compromise, though.  Pastels in chic styles I could do.  Frilly, but dark, I could do.  Maybe a gothic look, just a little.  A girly Goth.  Or not .
    The young sales clerk noticed me then and approached, nearly dancing on her tiptoes.  She all but pirouetted around me—a ballerina with a nose ring—making me slightly self-conscious.  She didn’t say a word, just grabbed a few things here and there, and held them out to me with a smile, her eyes all a-twinkle.  I dutifully took them and returned to the changing room.
    I tried everything on, and to my surprise, each item fit perfectly, flattered my shape, and made me feel girly , but not uncomfortably so.  I added the things to my keepers, and then grabbed the entire pile to head to the front.  Even though Dad had offered to ‘treat’ me, I couldn’t let him pay for my frivolity—he could buy me ‘practical’ clothes later.  I just about fell over when the