I’m sitting outside the Nordstrom’s fitting rooms – impatiently checking my watch, hating the idea of being in that specific store, and waiting for my friend, N – when a guy settles into the armchair next to me with a loud, long-suffering sigh. I look over in amusement.
He catches my glance, and shakes his head. “These are the most uncomfortable chairs I’ve ever sat in.”
I shift in my chair, and reply, “You know, I just might have to agree with you on that one.”
“What do you think this fabric is?” he asks, pinching the armrest distastefully.
“Fake velvet?” I venture.
He guffaws. “It’s FELVET!” He shifts around uncomfortably in the unyielding chairs, then throws up his hands. “That’s it, I’m writing to Mr. Nordstrom about this! There must be a Mr. and Mrs. Nordstrom somewhere. Excuse me, Mister Nordstrom…”
“…Your chairs SUCK. You let me know how that goes,” I say dryly.
“I need to lodge a complaint with Mr. Nordstrom about these felvet chairs,” he says loudly, angling his head at the saleslady in the vicinity. She looks at him coldly, then returns to assisting her customers.
A woman I take to be his girlfriend comes out of the fitting room, wearing a long green skirt with ruffles at the hem. “That’s the most unNicole-like thing I’ve ever seen!” he says disparagingly. “You sure you want to get that? If you take it off and throw it on the bedroom floor, you’ll never see it again. It’s CAMOUFLAGE!”
After she leaves, he leans over conspiratorially and whispers, “What did you think of her skirt?”
“Not bad, actually. Better than the velvet any day.”
He nods approvingly, then flags down a woman passing by. “Excuse me, we’re talking about these chairs. They’re covered in…in…fake velvet. FELVET! What do you think of that? It’s ridiculous, don’t you think?”
The lady laughs, shaking her head. Other women peer over the nearby clothes racks, and chuckle at his loud proclamations as well. Even the frosty saleslady actually cracks a smile.
The girlfriend exits the fitting room, no green skirt in sight. The guy springs up, glad to be rid of the chair. He waves at us all, then swoops off with his girl, talking to her excitedly. His exiting shot, as we hear it: “It was FELVET!”