Chapter 14: Mentally Preparing
The fluorescent hum of the supermarket felt like a physical weight pressing down on Adam’s skull. Thursday. The conveyor belt groaned, spitting out groceries – tinned beans, cereal boxes, a wilting head of lettuce. Adam scanned, bagged, repeated. His hands moved on autopilot, thick and clumsy. Brenda’s nasal whine cut through the drone. "Adam! Price check on these artisan sourdough rolls! Customer says they’re marked wrong!" He blinked, staring blankly at the golden-brown loaves. Artisan. Mark probably ate artisan bread. Did La Scala serve it? Would he order it?
"Adam!" Brenda’s voice sharpened. "The rolls!"
"Right. Sorry." He fumbled for the handheld scanner, fingers numb. The beep sounded accusatory. The customer, an elderly woman with sharp eyes, tapped her foot impatiently. "It is wrong," she stated. Adam mumbled apologies, keying in a correction, his cheeks burning. The fear was a constant, low thrum beneath the surface: What if someone sees Amanda with Mark? What if Brenda walks into La Scala? What if…
The rest of the shift dissolved into a blur of misplaced items and mumbled responses. He dropped a jar of pickles in aisle five. The sharp tang of vinegar and shattered glass filled the air, drawing sighs and tuts. Brenda materialized, lips pursed. "Honestly, Adam, focus! Clean this up. Properly." He knelt, picking shards from the sticky mess, the acrid smell mingling with the phantom scent of garlic and basil from La Scala. His mind wasn’t in aisle five. It was tangled in silks and anxieties, rehearsing conversations that hadn’t happened, picturing Mark’s intense eyes across a candlelit table.
Walking home that evening, the scent of cut grass from a nearby lawn was overpowering, almost cloying. Westford drowsed peacefully, but Adam felt like a frayed wire sparking in the damp twilight. Every passing car, every figure on the sidewalk, sent a jolt through him. Do they know? Can they tell? The fear was irrational, pervasive. He locked his apartment door with trembling hands, leaning against it, breathing hard. The supermarket polyester felt like a prison uniform. He ripped it off, desperate for the transformation.
===
The discarded clothes puddled on the floor like shed skin. Cool air kissed his bare chest, a stark relief after the day's claustrophobic heat.
Adam moved with a sudden, focused energy. Quick shower, followed by light make-up and a bit of feminine perfume. He pulled on soft black tights, the material whispering against his legs. Over them went an oversized, deep burgundy knit dress, swallowing his frame in comforting folds. Finally the wig, which was the final piece in making Amanda come alive.
Instantly, the awkwardness bled away. Shoulders relaxed; posture straightened. Amanda ran her fingers through her hair, the habitual gesture feeling different now, deliberate. A sigh escaped her, long and cleansing, expelling the lingering supermarket stink of disinfectant and wilted produce.
She picked up her phone, the screen bright in the dimming room. Scrolled past the dregs of Adam’s world – work group chats, reminder notifications. Found Mark's Instagram icon, a slightly blurred photo of him laughing against a sunset. Her thumb hovered.
>Amanda: Hey you! Quick question – insta DMs are kinda clunky for actual chatting. Any chance you're on Signal? Or Telegram? Easier to send funny cat vids that way 😉
She hit send, pulse fluttering in her throat. Set the phone down on the dresser, unable to watch it. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of Westford settling into evening. She traced the soft knit of her dress, the tactile reality grounding her.
A soft ping. She snatched the phone.
>Mark: Haha, true! Signal is @MarkReynolds. Telegram is the same. Also on Discord if you're into that rabbit hole – MarkR#1123. Cat vids are always welcome. The more ridiculous, the better.
Amanda grinned, a genuine, unguarded smile. He didn’t hesitate. No awkwardness, just openness. She opened the app store. Signal first. Downloaded. Created a new account: AmandaJohnson. Password: S@turd@yNerv0us! Added Mark’s handle.
Telegram next. Same username, slightly different password. Added him there too. Discord felt like deeper territory, but his openness was infectious. She navigated the unfamiliar interface, created Amanda_J, added his tag. Three new digital tendrils connecting her to him.
Her phone buzzed again. Signal this time.
>Mark: You work fast! Welcome to the superior messaging experience.
>Amanda: Gotta keep up! Saw a vid earlier of a cat trying to fit into a tiny cardboard box. Epic fail. Reminded me of someone... 😉
>Mark: Hey! I resemble that remark. Though my box-failing days are (mostly) behind me. Found this insane 80s synth band last night. Sounds like robots having a nervous breakdown. You in?
They traded links – the cat video, the obscure band track. Light, effortless chatter about nothing consequential: a bizarre street performer she glimpsed downtown, his rant about terrible coffee at the campus library. No "So, what do you really do?" or "Tell me about your family." Just bubbles of shared amusement floating in the digital space between them.
Saving the heavy stuff. Saving it for Saturday. The anticipation was a live wire humming under her skin, charged but carefully contained. Her phone screen illuminated her face in the gathering darkness, casting long shadows as she typed another quip about malfunctioning robots. A connection deepening, one playful message at a time.
===
Mark’s last message – a playful emoji of a winking robot – lingered in her mind, a digital promise of more. She stretched, the burgundy knit dress pulling softly across her shoulders, the fabric a comforting embrace against the cool night air seeping through the window. Tomorrow was Friday. One more hurdle. Then freedom.
Friday dawned with the same brutal predictability as Thursday. The supermarket's fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, bleaching the color from everything. Adam moved through his tasks – stocking shelves, scanning items, dealing with Brenda’s clipped commands – feeling like a ghost haunting his own life. The sharp, acrid tang of spilled vinegar from yesterday’s shattered pickle jar still seemed to cling faintly to his uniform, a nauseating reminder of his clumsiness. Every canned good he scanned, every plastic bag he filled, felt disconnected from the humming energy building inside him, the Amanda-energy focused solely on Saturday night.
"Adam! Stop woolgathering! End-cap display needs the new organic juice line. Now!" Brenda’s voice cracked like a whip. He flinched, almost knocking over a pyramid of tinned tomatoes. "S-sorry, Brenda. On it." His voice sounded thin, reedy. Adam. Not Amanda. He hauled the heavy crate towards Aisle 3, the muscles in his arms protesting. He pictured Amanda’s legs instead, smooth under tights, picturing the outfit possibilities laid out in his mind’s eye – silk, lace, maybe the new skirt? Mark’s smile flashed behind his eyes. Focus. Juice boxes. Right.
The shift crawled. Customers blurred together. His hands itched for the softness of his wig, the glide of eyeliner, anything but the rough polyester and the constant beep-beep-beep of the registers. The scent of overripe bananas near the checkout mingled unpleasantly with the chemical lemon of the floor cleaner. Freedom felt agonizingly distant. La Scala. Garlic, basil, warm bread. Mark’s intense gaze. Focus on the juice boxes, Adam.
Finally, mercifully, the clock hit six. Adam practically fled the stale air of the store, the cool evening breeze outside hitting him like a physical balm. He walked home fast, the rhythmic thud of his sneakers on pavement a counterpoint to the frantic beat of his heart. Not home to Adam’s apartment. Home to Amanda’s sanctuary. Liberation was a set of stairs away.
Shedding Adam’s clothes was like shedding chains. He stood in his small bedroom, breathing deeply. Exercise first. Not punishment. Sculpting. He laid out the yoga mat, the familiar purple surface a signal. The routine was precise, focused on the subtle curves Amanda desired: deep squats holding a kettlebell, targeting the glutes; side leg lifts that burned along the outer thigh; planks that made his core scream, chasing a flatter stomach. Sweat beaded on his temples, dripped down his spine. He focused on the burn, the stretch, the transformation happening cell by cell. Building her foundation. Each controlled movement pushed Adam further away, making space for her.
Shower. Hot water sluiced away the supermarket stink and the sweat, leaving his skin tingling and clean. The bathroom mirror steamed up, obscuring Adam’s reflection even before Amanda began her work. Moisturizer, cool and slick. Foundation, blending the faint shadow of stubble into smooth, even porcelain. Blush, a subtle flush high on the cheekbones. Mascara, painstakingly applied, darkening and defining the lashes. Eyebrows shaped with a careful pencil. Lipstick – a deep, warm rose. Each step was a ritual, a claiming.
The wig settled onto his head, its synthetic strands brushing his neck. He shook it gently. Then, the clothes. Not the comfy burgundy dress tonight. Tonight was for… testing. For confidence. Black lace panties first, sensuous against his skin. Then a matching demi-cup bra, padded, creating a soft, believable curve he adjusted carefully. Silky black stockings, the whisper of nylon as he rolled them up his legs. Finally, a simple but elegant charcoal grey pencil skirt that hugged the newly worked curves of his hips and thighs, and a soft, draped ivory blouse that hinted rather than revealed. He stepped into low black heels. Click. Click. Amanda turned slowly before the cleared mirror. Confidence surged, warm and potent. Shoulders back. Chin up. A slow, satisfied smile curved the rose-painted lips. Adam was gone.
She picked up her phone, sinking onto the edge of the bed, the skirt pulling taut. Signal app. Mark’s name pulsed at the top.
>Amanda: Survived supermarket purgatory. Freedom tastes… expensive. 😉 What’s a girl gotta do for a decent cocktail around here? Hypothetically, of course.
>Mark: Freedom looks expensive too, judging by that vibe. 😉 La Scala does a mean Negroni. But for a hypothetical Friday cocktail? The Crow’s Nest. Top of the old Maritime Hotel. Views to die for, drinks that won’t actually kill your wallet. Mostly.
>Amanda: The Crow’s Nest… sounds suitably mysterious. Views are always a good start. What’s the dress code? Asking for a friend who owns far too many skirts.
>Mark: Your friend has excellent taste. Smart casual reigns supreme. Think ‘effortlessly chic’, not ‘trying too hard’. Though I wouldn’t complain if the trying involved stockings. Just saying.
Amanda’s breath hitched. Heat flooded her cheeks, but it was a good heat. A daring heat. He’d noticed. He approved. She glanced down at her own stockinged legs, crossed at the ankle.
>Amanda: Stockings, hm? Noted. Perhaps my friend can be persuaded. Might have just the pair. She’s feeling… adventurous tonight.
>Mark: Adventurous is my favorite flavor. Tell your friend I’m intrigued. Very. What else is she adventurous with?
>Amanda: She might need a cocktail first. Or several. But she’s curious… what does ‘adventurous’ entail for you, Mark? Hypothetically.
>Mark: Hypothetically? Exploring. Pushing boundaries where they feel good. Saying yes to things that make your pulse race. Finding beauty in the unexpected. Like meeting someone unforgettable online.
The directness, the intensity beneath the playful words, sent a thrilling shiver down Amanda’s spine. This was flirting, yes, but it was edging into something else. Something charged. She traced the lace edge of her bra where it peeked above the blouse. They were just being playful, but maybe this was the outline of a future date. If things at La Scala Trattoria would go well tomorrow.
>Amanda: Unforgettable, huh? Bold statement.
>Mark: It’s Friday. And bold feels appropriate. Saturday feels… significant. You feel significant, Amanda. Can’t stop thinking about actually seeing you. Hearing your voice beyond texts.
>Amanda: Saturday. 7.30pm. La Scala. Don’t be late. And prepare to be… surprised. 😉
>Mark: A surprise? Now you’ve got me. I’ll be there at 7:25, vibrating with curiosity. Sleep well, Amanda. Dream of Negronis and… possibilities.
She stared at the message. You feel significant. The words glowed on the screen. Possibilities. They hung in the air of her little room, thick and intoxicating. Amanda leaned back against the pillows, the silky blouse cool against her skin. She stretched, a slow, feline movement, the pencil skirt tightening. Three days of Amanda stretched before her. No Adam. Just her. And Saturday. Her fingers hovered over the phone, energy crackling under her skin. Sleep felt impossible. The buzz was too loud. The image of Mark’s face, the promise in his text, the feel of the stockings and the confident cut of the skirt – it all coalesced into a single, potent thrum of desire. She opened the camera app, switching to the front view. The woman looking back was poised, sleek, alive with anticipation. For the next few days, she could breathe. She could be her. Completely. The thought was a luxury, a thrill. She took a deep breath, savoring it, the promise of the weekend unfolding like the dark, velvet night outside her window. Mark’s final words echoed: Dream of Negronis and… possibilities. Her pulse kicked. Possibilities indeed. She scrolled through her photos, selecting one she’d taken earlier – just her legs, crossed at the ankle, showcasing the black stockings and the sharp heel of her shoe against the grey carpet. She attached it to a new message.
>Amanda: Sweet dreams require inspiration. Consider this yours. Sleep tight. 😴
She hit send. The die was cast. The game escalating. Amanda smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. Let him vibrate now. Tomorrow was freedom. Saturday was the destination. And she was ready. Almost. Just a few more things to prepare. The real adventure was just beginning.