The Canned Goods Aisle

“So, I fell in love today – “

“OMG! OMG! OMG!…”

I give my best friend the death stare. “Shut up if you want to hear the story.” She subsides, so on we go.

“I met this guy in the grocery store. Wait, I shouldn’t say ‘guy’, rather should say ‘man, whoa!’ He’s like 6’1”, broad shoulders dropping down into a trim waist. The rugged and sturdy type. He’s wearing super faded Levi’s, red-tab and all, tight at the thigh because, well, you just think on that. Brown-skinned muscular arms drop out of a white t-shirt.

I live in a very small town, and I have never seen this man before.

He’s walking toward produce, no cart, but he’s got a list. I stop my cart and watch him walk away. I have to pause, for reflection. I drink in the way his ass creases those Levi’s as he walks. I follow.

He tucks a head of lettuce under one arm causing rippling of said arm’s muscles. Some involuntary noise escapes me. I narrowly avoid detection when he turns to discover the cause of the weak groan. I casually put two tomatoes in my cart. These are not on my list.

We continue through the pattern of the store. He tucks a few more items into the crook of his arm. I find a few on my list as I follow, hoping I can maintain the illusion that it’s totally coincidental that I’m never more than fifteen feet behind him. He turns a corner and I lose him. I panic until my nose picks up the scent of his cologne two aisles over.

Canned goods. He’s struggling a bit adding a third can of soup to his burden and drops one. Conveniently, it rolls to my feet. Sweet! I pick it up and as I hand it to him, I find myself staring into dark brown eyes set in a handsome chiseled face, strong jaw and accentuated cheekbones, and OMG those deep brown eyes. OMG.

In a deep, gravelly voice, you know the kind you can feel caress your skin as he speaks? he says, “Thank you.”

I just smile, utterly stunned.

“You dropped your list,” he said. He hands it to me.

I barely recover my tongue in time to say, “Oh, Thank you,” before he saunters off toward the check-outs.”

I pause in my story to look at my friend. She’s hanging on my every word and now looks at me expectantly. “What? That’s it? Come on!”

I just smile, milking it for a minute. “It wasn’t my list he handed to me. It was his phone number.”

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