Orange Crush

"Whoa, I need my sunglasses."
"Say, are you a human traffic cone?"
"Oh geez, that reminds me. I have to clean up that vomit I left on the bathroom floor."
All weekend long and during the week, I have been hearing those kind of comments. It has happened every time I've gone out with Mark. I don't know what's got into him. First it was the bed spread, now it's his shoes. Early last week, he came through the front door and lit up the living room.
"Do you like my new shoes."
"Uh, um, sure. They're very nice." I lied.
He was wearing the brightest orange shoes I have ever seen. Actually the only orange shoes I have ever seen, not counting Ronald McDonald's. The most embarrassing encounter was last night when we went out to an Irish pub/restaurant. The Irish don't look kindly on people wearing orange. Actually nobody said anything, they just burned his fish and chips, and spit in his Guinness.

I don't know why Mark bought those shoes. He draws enough attention to himself without flaming orange feet. Whatever the reason, I like them. I like the fact that a glow appears in the room moments before Mark does. That way he can't catch me off guard, like when I'm going through the pockets of his pants.