van's idea of shopping is in and out in ten minutes.

you have been here an hour and a half.

she's still here.

you keep holding things up for her approval and van keeps giving it, leaning against the rack, arms crossed, pretending to be inconvenienced while actually — genuinely — having opinions.

"that one," she says, pointing.

"yeah?"

"colors are better."

you put the first one back without hesitation and van feels something embarrassingly warm about that.

the fitting room bench is where van fully loses the plot.

you come out in something and do the little turn and look at her for the verdict and van just — stares for a second too long.

"good," she says.

"you didn't even look properly."

"i looked," van says. "trust me."

you go pink. disappear back behind the curtain.

van looks at the ceiling.

you find something for her.

van says she doesn't need it. you do the eyes. van tries it on.

you fix the collar with both hands after, close and careful, and look up at her like she's done something remarkable by simply existing in a jacket.

"we're getting it," you say.

"i have a jacket."

"you have one jacket."

"it's a good jacket."

"van."

she buys the jacket.

on the way out you take her hand and swing it between you.

"fun right," you say.

"it was fine," van says.

"you gave opinions on like forty things."

"i was being helpful."

"you told me the green one was the wrong shade specifically."

"it was," van says. "objectively."

you laugh. squeeze her hand.

van looks straight ahead and smiles where you can't see it.

you can probably see it.