This could be an incredibly soporific story that'll turn you narcoleptic. I don't write this way really, but for the very purpose of having a grade, I have willed myself (not really willed, mind, spent half a day deciphering the daggum 4×4×4 Rubik's cube, which have thrown me in a cardiac epilepsy of failure.XP) to sit on my bed with the blinking cursor glaring back at me from my laptop, my brain stultified for two hours or so. YES. That's what I call will power. It is the ability to unbearably force yourself to stare at the blinking cursor for two hours.XP Hence, the unfinished BLAHLY written short story.

He swung open the door with a chime, and the breeze outside entered the tailoring shop in a whirl. The papers and the neckties on the front desk fluttered. The door closed with a click and the air was once again still. The shop was cool, fragrant with the pleasant smell of lavenders, its marble floor caramel brown. The walls were painted pale pink, dabbed with patterns of delicate flowers. The lights were soft and yellow, illuminating to the left, rows of rods carrying hung coats, suits, barongs, and pants arranged by material and color. Two or three people walked up and down the aisles. To the right stood a heavy block of oak bench, its edges carved in rivulets. Next to the bench was a similarly heavy desk of oak, rich and dark, and the female proprietor behind it smiled at him in recognition, eyes exquisite and mysterious, keeping secrets that they alone knew.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cortez," she said in a soft voice. She approached him slowly from the desk and offered her hands, saying, "May I take your coat?"

He didn't take his eyes off her, and for a moment, didn't understand what she was saying. He remembered the last time he visited this tailoring shop. Her averting eyes, the smell of her lush hair, her sweet enticing scent, and the brush of her hands—that touch, her strokes on his arms and neck and legs, soft and gentle. She had taken his body measurements for his suit next week. After he had chosen the material, a black Armani, thick and sturdy as canvas, she took her measuring tape and evaluated the dimensions of his body. He was approximately six feet tall, his thick body hidden in three layers of clothes.

"May I take your coat please?" she repeated, a little louder.

"Yes," he said abruptly, snapping himself from the day he last saw her, the day she mesmerized him.

She took his coat off from the shoulder, and her breasts slightly brushed his back. She hung the coat on a wooden hook by the wall, and offered him a seat. He took a seat on the oak bench, his hands caressing the rivulet carvings on the edges, his eyes at her direction, remembering her face as it was before.

"Black Armani coat and pants, correct?" She stood in front of him, waist slightly bent to one side, and her left hand hanging in the air. She was wearing a black tight-fitting blouse with ruffles along the center buttons, emphasizing the sides of her breasts and the curves of her waist. Her black skirt reached her knees in a flare of ruffled laces. And even beneath her black translucent stockings, her legs were a shape that he yearned to touch.

Richmond Cortez nodded in ascent, eyes light brown and dreamy. His face was that of a child, gentle and soft with flesh, a face one would consider innocent in a grave criminal situation, a face one would never imagine flaming with anger or vibrant with joy. His was simply a complacent face, always calm and placid, a face without much expression.

She turned and swayed her hips as she walked to the backroom, her heals clicking and echoing from the marble floor. Her back gave him a round view of her full buttocks and her lissome arched back, and he stared at her, he stared at her until she reached the backdoor and suddenly, she turned towards him.

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