The Hardest Part

I missed the best part from my story yesterday. As we were talking in the staff room at the very beginning of my shift, we started talking about all the crap we were having to buy to bring with us on our respective holidays/extended work/travel plans. He asked me where he should buy his clothes from as he doesn't go shopping very much. I asked him what he usually wears and where he buys his clothes from.

He was tentative.
"...Live?" he said. Oh R, I sympathize. When people ask me where I bought a certain item of clothing from, I suddenly become very self-conscious of my style choices. Will they judge me for my devotion to K-Mart (or my recent shift towards Target)?
"Why don't you just buy your clothes from there then?" I asked.
"I don't know..."
"Well, what do you usually wear?" I asked him. We were standing close (I am exaggerating the proximity of our closeness to convey the primal urges I felt at this time. They were manifesting themselves as delusional thoughts).
"Like, those shirts with the things," he said.
"..."
"You know!" he said. "Those button up shirts with the pattern."
"Pattern?"
"Like, the little squares and stuff."
"Plaid?" I asked, as tentative as he had initially been. In my mind, I was screaming, "PLAID? PLAID? DO YOU MEAN PLAID? DO YOU MEAN PLAID?"
"Yeah! I think that's what it's called. Plaid."

Well, well, well. I sized him up, sized him down, sized him sideways.
"You should buy more plaid shirts then," I said with all the authority in the world. "Plaid is a universal style. Stick with plaid."
"Yeah, I think I will," he said. We smiled at each other and I left the staff room to start my shift.

J