"Got a changing room?"
"Sorry we're just a charity shop, we have to take the premises we're given and this is a small one," I said looking at the white tee shirt pulled across a tight and muscular chest. I couldn't work out if he was tanned or had mediterranean blood. He had that Italian look about him.
"You don't mind if I change behind this rail do you?"
"Not at all," I said squeezing behind the counter. Maybe I should have told him about the strategically placed mirror. Charity meant nothing to shoplifters.
He slipped off his trainers revealing snowy white sports socks, no holes. My heart raced as he pulled his belt tighter to realise the pin and then loosen it. I remembered an old television advertisement were an attractive boy stripped off in a laundrette. My mouth went dry as he dropped his jeans and stepped out of them. Strong athletic thighs and tight white boxers didn't leave much to the imagination.
He shook the jeans and then slid them on. A nice fit. He obviously thought so too. I licked my lips slightly as he unzipped his pants and let the drop around his ankles. My hand strayed to my hair. I thought I'd lost that nervous mannerism decades ago. I twisted a strand around my finger, my hair wasn't long enough to do it any more with the perm.
Finally he folded the jeans over his arm and came to the counter.
What a smile! I wondered how old he was twenty, twenty two. Definitely younger than my grandson.
Little goose bumps danced up my arms watching him push his hand into his tight denim pocket.
"Put the change in the charity box," he said handing me a fiver, "no need for a bag. Lets try and save the planet."
And then he flashed that smile again and left with the tinkling of the shop bell.
"He was a good looking boy," Dora said.
"Really, I didn't notice," I replied.