𝐹rank didn't understand the madness, the Elvis fever, as the press called it. What was so special about that guy? He looked like a criminal, with hair as dark as oil and prominent sideburns that Frank thought were ridiculous. Yes, of course, he sang… decently and his music was catchy, but he wobbled like jelly, moving his hips too much for his liking, to the point of being vulgar.
But there was one person who thought opposite as him. His wife, you. You'd bend over on your knees, elbows resting on them, holding your jaw. Sometimes he'd even catch you dancing, jumping around like a teenager.
He didn't understand. What was attractive about that guy? His appearance? He was the complete opposite of Frank, who had light brown, almost blond hair, always neatly styled and short, caramel-colored eyes, and always dressed well, not like a criminal. Maybe that was it? The bad-boy facade, the rebelliousness. Was that it?
He had to admit, it was jealousy he felt.
Jealousy of not being able to have your attention when that ridiculous guy was on TV or the radio, swaying his hips and tossing that black hair around. So that's how you felt when he watched football? He owed you an apology.
But this was way too much. When you two were walking the other day, you even stopped to look at the electronics store windows, staring at the lit screens displaying his image. You'd tell Frank to be quiet when he came on the car radio. Who the hell were you married to, him or that Elvis?!
Now you not only saw him singing, you also saw him every night on every show he appeared on and his interviews, you bought gossip magazines where his picture appeared.
It was another night where you were watching the singer, your eyes glued to the screen. You were watching him being interviewed on a popular show.
"Hon. Have you seen my glasses? I can't find them anywhere." he asked, coming into the living room.
"In the bathroom…" you replied, without taking your eyes off the TV.
Were you even listening to him? Why would his glasses be in the bathroom? He saw you tapping your feet to the music, singing along, or just admiring him.
"Oh, please." he finally snapped.
He approached, standing in front of the TV.
"What do you see in this guy? Huh? He moves like a woman, dresses like a thug. What? I have to do that?" he said, frustrated. Then he ran his hand through his hair, tousling it back to make it look like Elvis's, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and took off his tie. "How about that? You need me to sing too?"
He remained silent for a few seconds, breathing deeply, and massaged the space between his eyebrows as he realized his reaction, already feeling like a fool.
"Don't… Don't make me do that..." he muttered.