rene's, reimagined
(I'm ill. They make me ill. Take this snippet from a longer piece I'm chomping away at because they make me so ill.)
---
“Harvey?”
And suddenly the world snaps back into focus. Harvey nods at the blue tie (paisley, who the fuck still wears paisley?) in Rene’s hand and says, “Not that one. Try the green,” because no good lawyer is without a good poker face. Right. Kinda in the middle of something.
“Paisley’s coming back around,” chides Rene. He leaves anyway, to hopefully return with something less offensive.
“Harvey.”
Mike calls his name again, without turning around. Harvey’s just able to catch the blue of Mike’s eyes over his shoulder while he’s on the dias, arms spread, measuring tape hanging off of him like Mike’s just crossed the finish line. The mirror must add ten feet, because there’s no other explanation for the vertigo that suddenly washes over him.
“How do I look?” Harvey watches Mike say, in the mirror. There’s that little chin tilt again, that look. Like a challenge.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath on Victoria’s Secret calling you back,” Harvey says, finally. “But not bad. For a rookie.”
