“Miguel! Over here!” Asher calls as he stands at the three-way mirror trying on a £40 white button-down. At 6’2” he’s hard to miss. I shuffle over as he plays with the shoulders and tucks it messy.

“Do you like it?” he asks. “I need it for catering tonight.” Catching the 28” SLIM on his jeans, I find myself tugging at my XL fitted t-shirt and reply, “Yeah, looks alright.” He checks out his arse in the side mirror and in its reflection I catch a woman two carousels over parting cheap necklaces to glimpse his backside. She sneers when I shift my bag and block her view.

I won’t get many more of these little shopping dates with Ash. His last shoot for a third-tier shoe brand got a lot of attention. And no, the copy of that issue isn’t in my bag anymore! 

Unconvinced, he asks, “Bit boxy though, yea?”

Insert eye roll. Ash wakes up, rummages through whatever semi-clean clothes he finds under the remnants of underwear left by maybe half the male models in London, straight included, throws them on and looks like he fell out of a Paper magazine ad, and he’s asking me for fashion advice.

He pulls the tuck out and as his eight-pack makes an appearance, a girl nearby drops her bags.

“You could get it tailored. There’s a good place in Marylebone,” I tell him.

“Could do. I don’t know if I can be arsed.” He decides to opt out of changing in the dressing room and de-robes right there on the floor. In the next set of mirrors I see a blob of gum shoot out a gay man’s mouth and hit his boyfriend’s cheek. That’s not going to end well.

Asher is oblivious.  “Let’s go,” he says, waving me over.

I knock about through the claustrophobic path between the “Proud To Be Me” large-waisted jeans, fully stocked, and the clearance rack of flannel shirts. It’s 30c outside. Even the cheap steel here hates me and I get snagged by the display. Can this store find any more ways to yell, “Get out fatty!”?

Unhooking my bag, I knock a pair of 26” jeans to the floor and hear their cry of gratitude, spared the everlasting death of landing in one leg of the neighboring size 42s, never to be seen again.

I place them on the near-barren “Slim Fit” carousel then imagine they’ll be bought and on a hot date before my bus even gets me home tonight.

Meeting Asher in the queue, he rests his arm on my shoulder and kisses the top of my balding head, “Thanks for coming, mate!”

Pets are beloved.

“It’s good to see—” I’m bumped hard. Indignant, I turn to see a modelesque twentysomething stare right past me and say to Asher, “Sorry.”

I want to bite him.

Asher ignores him and says to me, “How are you?” But I don’t hear him, readjusting my bumped bag and flashing Asher-Light a vitriolic stare. Reluctantly, he meets my gaze and I serve fierce indignation. Pretty boy probably can’t even spell that. He responds, throwing his hands back in horror and takes an exaggerated step back. I’d call him a cunt but it was on his necklace.

“Next!” The cashier barks. We move up and my bag slips. It knocks over a box of impulse-buy sweets and sends them crashing to the floor between me and Mr. I’m Not Interested. His eyes lock on now and he laughs while I sort it out, humiliated. He gets a second go when grabbing the last box unbalances my bag again and sends it back around to slap me in the face. Lucky for me, Mr. I Don’t Want To Touch You is capturing it in full Tik Tok glory. I look around for something to kill myself with.

Asher turns to help but I wave him off: “I’m fine.” Sweets back in their place and self-respect obliterated, I walk to him as he puts in his PIN. “You need a smaller bag, Miguel,” he says gently.

“I know. I just like this one. It holds more stuff.”

My peripheral vision catches the cashier, a future Mr. Gay UK, two poofs and every woman looking at Asher. “Let’s go,” I say, exhausted.

We walk towards the door and Asher lifts me up. He smells like lemon wood cleaner and clove cigarettes. “Let’s get pissed before I have to work!” he commands. I squeal in delighted horror. 

Pets like to be held. 

“Fine!” I say, “But in Soho!” 

“Friendly Society here we coooome!” he yells, laughing with me on his back. Across the street, I already feel a bit better.