Things went unusually well for his friends. He couldn’t tell them why. When he was a child his exasperated mother had sent him to his room with these words: “…and I wish you would stop telling people that you’re a genie!” So he had stuck a cork in it and lived a quiet life of carefully circumscribed kindnesses.
“Everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time,” someone had said. It got him thinking. He decided there were two ways to go. He could not wear pants, but he was certain a desperate celebrity would soon think of this. Or he could put his pants on both legs at once.
He practiced. He became very good. He didn’t tell a soul.
Whenever someone asserted something couldn’t be done he would nod and smile. The secret knowledge that he was unique provided great comfort.
It was happening now, and he allowed himself a knowing smirk. In the moment where that smirk lived their eyes met. She was smirking too.
Their smirks fell. His stomach dropped. He was certain the floor had fallen away.
His eyes managed to get a message to his panicked brain: “She’s wearing pants.” It could only mean one thing. He smiled.
She smiled too.