I had my nails done on Friday. I usually have a natural French polish but this time I decided to have a colour for a change.
And they look nice, a kind of cerisey pink.
So I made a point of showing them to DT man, just in case he failed to notice.
I quipped “Hey they are going to look really classy with my cycling mitts.”
“Slightly hot” he replied.
Hmm. Slightly hot, I thought. Is that so? Slightly hot. A frisson of heat. The briefest burst of yeah-baby sexiness. On a scale of 1 -10, with scorching being 10, slightly hot was a 1 or a 2. A small glow enveloped me, the likes of which that might envelop someone who had a ‘slightly hot’ nails/mittens combo.
Not that it made an iota of difference to anything because who would notice? Certainly not another cyclist passing at speed. I vaguely wondered whether DT man had all these years been harbouring a secret glove fetish. It might be useful if he had. I do have some interesting gloves, after all.
But overall the feeling was kind of satisfying. I thought they looked nice. He thought they looked slightly hot. And slightly hot is better than primarily not.
“Slightly hot” I repeated with a little sigh.
“No,” he said, not even looking up from the Daily Telegraph.
“But I thought you meant they were a bit sexy.”
“No, ODD!” he restated with some emphasis.
“Not even very slightly sexy, then?”
“No, lacy black fingerless gloves that extend up the arm to the elbow. Now those would be sexy.”
“What, long lacy black mittens?”
“An incongrous juxtaposition of words,” he said. With that, he went to make breakfast.
I doubt they stock them in Evans Cycles, but it would be worth asking….