Waxy Love

Standard

“It’s mutual, you know, the hate I have for cheese and the hate it has for me.” The man stands beside me, his mustache staring at mine with smug superiority.

“Do I know you?” I ask. My pink gown is dragging the floor, collecting dust and I shudder to think what else from this horrible excuse for a grocery store. I couldn’t go anywhere else, though. Couldn’t risk anyone I know seeing me with my whiskers growing in. How did this happen? It’s like my cat glued hair balls to my upper lip while I was napping and I’m already late for the party.

“No. But you can if you want,” he says. “Looking for wax?” He nods toward the Sally Hansen shelf.

“Go away.” I turn toward the waxing options. I can’t go for the heated kind because I’ll have a bright red face. And why is this mouth-breather staring at me like we met on the Love Boat?

He grabs a box and shoves it toward me and I notice that oh-my-god he has a nub for a pointer finger. “My ex-wife swore by this one.” He winks. “I like my women a little hairy.”

“Thanks, Magnum PI. Do you mind scampering away now?” The florescent lights highlight the greasy clumps in his hair.

“Wouldn’t kill you to be nice.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Do you spend all your Saturday nights in the wax aisle of the grocery store trying to talk to girls?” I ask.

“You’re not really a girl. You’re a woman speeding toward middle age and you shouldn’t be wearing that Barbie dress.” He smiles, revealing perfectly yellowed teeth.

“I, uh, what?”

“You heard me. Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re the one shopping for wax in a bubble gum pink ball gown. Life must have really shit on you.” He places his hand on my arm, tickling it a little with the nub.

“Do you want my phone number?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I guess.”

My stomach flutters from his filthy indifference. I pull a pen from my beaded bag and write my number on his palm.

“Call me, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” he says and burps a little.

My chest is heaving with the possibility of true love as I watch him limp toward the dairy aisle.

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