Aisle Tragedies
3:30:
This boy was about 6 foot 5. Maybe a bit taller. An overgrown high schooler working in the produce department. He’d do.
“Ma’am?”
“Oh! No hun I can handle this. But I do need one of those avocada’s you’ve got over there, mind picking me a perfectly ripe one?” I bat my lashes a little. No one can resist these baby’s. I lace them with a subtle sparkle gloss and you wouldn’t believe how many heads I turn.
“Sure, no problem ma’am, anything I can do.”
Perfect. I’m guessing hunky in aisle 1 near the avocados is about 6 foot 2 but I need a height comparison and this boy is my yardstick.
It’s not like there’s much to go home to. My marriage is lost somewhere between past due rent and a pair of headphones attached to a male in front of a video game.
But avacada man. Yummy. Those eyes have been haunting me since the day I set pointed heel in this sticky linoleum grocery store. Eyes the color of an avocado’s insides. Green like moss climbing my legs and holding me where I stand. Yummy.
Me and him just so happen to shop on Tuesdays. Really the best day for shoppin’ the produce. Saturday is full of lazy college kids, stocking up for all nighter’s and binge partying. Sunday brings the wrecks out. You know the ones who look like they might shank ya if you choose the wrong cream of chicken? Monday’s got all the mommys out and about, already bored with the cheerio tower at home. But Tuesday. Ah now that’s the day the beauties come out.
“Here you are ma’am. One perfectly ripe avocado.” Yard Stick boy places it like a precious gem into my outstretched palm but my eyes stay glued on avocado man. “Anything else I can help you with this afternoon ma’am.” His voice jumps an octave on ‘ma’am’ and I bring my eyes to rest on his pimply face.
“humm, yes, actually, how tall did you say you were hunny?” Back to those green eyes. Well the back of his head anyway. The head that cradles them eyes.
“Uh, right, maybe 6’5?”
Doggonit I’m good.
Avocada may be 6 foot 3. Perfect. I can’t stand those men who think they’re above us all. The ones over 6’5 I mean. Discludin’ the overgrown highschooler. He’s a peach. Just the giants of the world. They smirk over our heads like they see a whole ‘nuther world of chocolate and berries floatin just out of our reach.
Then there’s the puny ones. I married one of those.
3:36
Avocada is just right. He usually picks up a few onions, red, a bunch of cilantro, and two avocados. Somehow he always misses the produce misters by just a second. Impeccable timing and he get’s the driest cilantro on the shelves. But I like the misters. I start at the opposite end of the produce near the wall and leave my hand hovering over whatever greens and reds and purples are being drenched by the mechanical rain while Avacado struts those long, lean legs past the organic produce, layed out like a buffet for the crunchies. He turns down a new aisle. Strawberries? He almost sees me watchin’ but I casually fondle a tomato and ooh and ahh at the ruby red of it all.
His next stop is tortillas. I only know because I too have a love of tex-mex, and black beans happen to be on the same aisle. The whole wheat are his favorite--tortillas I mean--such a healthy choice. His strong hands slip under the shiny plastic and lift up the package like it’s light as a pack of marshmallows. I know he’s strong. I’ve seen him take two gallons of milk out the automatic door with only one hand. I’ve never seen veins like that, blue like the longest flame flame, and sizzling, on a man’s forearms. Yummy.
3:40
He gets to the end of the aisle and jerks to a stop. Avocado man doesn’t jerk. I notice the way his chocolate curls bounce back when he turns on his heel and reaches for enchilada sauce two shelves down. I can appreciate a man who experiments a little. Branches out. Mine wears the same brown socks to church until they’re holier than the priest.
3:42
He’s finished. This is all he ever gets on Tuesday afternoon. Minus the strawberries and the sauce of course Maybe he comes another day to get the eggs, bread, milk. But today this is it. He flashes that smile at the checkout lady. I like to watch it linger on his lips- his story book dimples reaching to those avocado eyes. It’s faster than usual. The dimples don’t quite meet his eyes and he Pinks. Cheeks a warm summer sunset. Taking his change he veers off from the exit. The exit where he usually stands tall for a second and watches those doors open up like castle gates for a king. Avocado man stumbles over his feet instead and lands himself in the pre-made bouquet refrigerator.
3:50
He scans the shelves and settles on a bright arrangement of sunflowers and mums, tiny red roses weaved between the bigger blossoms. He grins again. The linger is real long this time.
The last time I got flowers from my stump of a man it was carnations. Yellow. No strawberries.
3:55
I’ll be five minutes late to dinner tonight.
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