Page 34 of Power of the Mind
***
Tallus announced himself with a dramatic rap on the door at ten to five the following evening. “Knockity-knock,” he singsonged before letting himself in.
When I’d texted midafternoon to inform him Dr. Hilty’s office hours ended at six thirty, he’d roped Kitty into closing the records department that evening so we could surprise the certified hypnotist slash psychologist before he went home for the night.
I glanced up from my laptop as Tallus sashayed into the room wearing soft gray cotton trousers, a short-sleeved buttoned shirt in a smoky blue, and a tie in a slightly darker shade. No wild patterns. No bold colors. And no come-fuck-me glasses—my favorite accessory. To say I was disappointed was an understatement.
The outfit was toned down for Tallus. Usually, his clothes were loud and showy, bright and expressive. They complimented his outgoing personality. Today, it was all wrong.
Tallus caught me checking him out and struck a pose. I immediately dashed my attention to the computer, even though it was far too late to act normal.
“Aww. It’s okay, Guns. Look your fill. I don’t mind. Your attention warms my tender heart.”
From my periphery, I watched Tallus perform a spin, jutting his too-perfect ass when his back was turned, then completing the pirouette with his hands on his hips. Admittedly, it didn’t matter what he wore. He looked amazing. Good enough to eat, although I mourned the missing glasses.
“This, my fashion-challenged nonfriend, is what I call myserious wardrobe.” He made a serious face as though it was required to get the point across. “It directly contrasts my outgoing personality and gives people the illusion I’m a hard-working, intellectual stiff of a businessman. Am I right? Do I pass?”
I didn’t understand the question and blinked confusedly.
“I’ll explain. If the people who see me like this operate in the same social circles as stiff businessmen, they will feel more comfortable around me, and conversation will flow freely because they will think we are the same intellectual snobs, even when we aren’t.
“Now if, let’s say, I wore that snazzy number I wore to the bar two weeks ago—you remember the one? Shiny, with a low-cut neckline? Come on, Guns, I saw you watching me as I waited in line to pay my cover charge at Gas.” His gaze turned introspective. “I think Memphis said it was pink and purple. I can’t tell. I put a lot of trust in that man to coordinate me. He better not steer me wrong.”
“I remember.” The growl in my tone was a direct result of him bringing up Memphis.
“Was it pink and purple?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He grinned and winked. “I knew you saw me. My own personal spy. Anyhow, say I wore that outfit in the same circle of snobby, intellectual businessmen. It could easily cause problems. My bar clothes suggest an outgoing personality. They lower my IQ despite being flirty, fun, and suggestive. With them, I exude confidence and charisma but not brains. Different clothes equal different assumed character traits. Are you following?”
“No.”
Tallus sighed. “It’s not complicated. The bar clothes suggest loosened morals and sexual promiscuity. They scream playful, assertive, and adventurous. Don’t you agree?”
Fuck if I wasn’t getting hard remembering that goddamn outfit, but I had no idea where Tallus was going with this or what point he was trying to make, so I nodded and shook noncommittally.
“What I’m trying to explain, my dear, sweet nonlover slash personal stalker, is that clothing tells you a lot about a person. Therefore, you can use them to your advantage. You can give someone a false impression of who you are simply by changing your outfit.
“Here’s an example. If I wore ill-fitting torn jeans and a ratty no-name-brand T-shirt, someone might make assumptions about the state of my bank account. If I wore Nike sweatpants, trainers, a matching hoodie, and found myself a Fitbit, I could pass as a runner—which I’m not, by the way. Don’t ever make that mistake. Exercise and I don’t get along. Yuck.”
I bit the inside of my cheek at how seriously he delivered the last line like he was afraid I might suggest he join me on the treadmill next time I hit the gym.
“The point is, clothing is a costume we use in our everyday life to manipulate the people around us into believing we are someone we aren’t. Did you know that?”
“No?” It came out like a question because I wasn’t sure why we were discussing clothes.
Tallus, wearing the sultry, mischievous smirk that turned my insides to liquid, sauntered toward me. I slapped the laptop closed before he saw the solitaire game on the screen.
He braced his hands on the desk and bent, putting himself at eye level. “I’m telling you this for a reason,partner.” He shushed me with a finger against my lips when I opened my mouth to correct him. “Pay attention. This information could be beneficial in your line of work. Inourline of work. Some famous dude once said—and I’m paraphrasing because god help me, I think it was Shakespeare, and his work made my eyes cross in school, so I never memorized it—Life is a stage, and we are the actors or some shit. We play many parts throughout our lives. The various clothes we wear are but costumes, helping us to remake ourselves daily. The audience—society—will form impressionsand opinions before we even open our mouths. I’m losing you, aren’t I?”
“Um… a little.”
“Look at me, Guns. Really look at me. I’m twenty-six years old. Most, if not all, of the older generation have trouble taking the younger generation seriously. We’re brain-dead kids. We don’t conform to the world they know. We’re delinquents. Rebels. Not worth associating with. William Hilty is a seventy-one-year-old educated man. A doctor. If I’m going to look the part of a detective—”
“You’re not a detective.”
Tallus jammed his finger against my lips.