This one came to me while I was standing in line at a specific chain store (I won't say the name but it rhymes with "Ball Cart"). I watched this dude chatting up a female employee, both of whom looked as I've described them here. It was just a snippet—a random moment of life. I saw her there a few more times before she quit (or got fired). I haven't seen him since. But I always wondered what happened by the tail end of their conversation. Maybe it was this.
As always, I apologize in advance for my poor editing skills and request any feedback you can give, good, bad, or ugly.
#
WILL
Will scanned the lines at the registers and sighed. All four were backed up six or more customers each.
Why do they have eight registers if they never open more than four?
He would have supposed it was just the local branch but the branches of this chain big box store back home had the same problem. He pivoted, turned toward the self-checkout lanes, and got in line.
While he waited, Will let his eyes roam over the local patrons. Compared to the more urban dress of suits, skirts, and fashionable slacks he was used to seeing, the residents of Grand Junction tended more toward flannel shirts, boots, and cowboy hats. Will reminded himself he wasn't in Centennial, in the suburbs of Denver any longer. At least the people here all seemed more relaxed and laid-back.
Laid-back. Yeah, sometimes that means slow.
An older couple at the self-checkout register seemed to be having trouble scanning one of their items. Both tried to run the item, failed, then tried again. And again. Will shifted from one foot to the other. He reminded himself he'd probably be old someday and be slow to adapt to new technology, so the least he could do now was try to show some patience.
A flash of red caught his attention. His eyes locked onto a mass of red hair moving towards the helpless couple.
The attendant at the self-checkout section was young, maybe twenty at most, making her a few years younger than Will. Freckles dotted her pale cheeks and the bridge of her nose beneath her black-rimmed glasses. Her round face was set in a smile as she helped the couple. She stood about five-six and was probably twenty pounds overweight, though much of it he would have classified as the "baby fat" of someone who hasn't quite grown all the way into their mature body.
And then there was the hair. The woman's mane of wavy red hair—the carrot-orange shade reminiscent of an Irish lass—fell in a spread pattern to her waist. With every twist of her torso or turn of her head, her hair bounced and swayed.
Will's breath caught in his throat. He'd always loved red hair.
"Excuse me."
He blinked and turned his head toward the sound of the voice. The person behind him in line, an irate middle-aged woman clutching a tiny dog to her chest, glared at him and gestured at an empty self-checkout station. "That one's open."
"Oh. Sorry." He cranked his cart toward the open station. Will grinned to himself. The irony of his previous criticism of the older couple, in light of his own lack of awareness, was not lost on him and he grudgingly admitted to his hypocrisy. He glanced toward the redhead but she had apparently resolved the couple's issue and retreated to her station.
Will scanned the first few items. He rued the cost, hating the need to buy condiments and basic household provisions. It was a new job and a new town, and his mom wasn't keen on him taking the ketchup out of the refrigerator. At least he wasn't paying rent.
He picked up a bag of frozen vegetables and ran it over the scanner. The machine buzzed and a mechanical voice said, "Please wait for assistance." Will sighed.
"Need some help?"
He looked to his left and she was there. Up close, all he could do was stare. Her deep blue eyes were shaded with flecks of green. What he had thought was a sprinkling of freckles was more of a blanket across her nose and cheeks. The girl's pearly white teeth glinted under the store's neon lights. A scent wafted past Will's nose—clean, fresh, and delightful.
Her smile faltered as he stared. "Can I help you with scanning something?"
Will shook himself. "Oh, sorry. I was distracted. Yes, this bag won't scan."
The girl's smile returned. "Oh, I can get that. May I?"
Will stepped aside and let her at the register. She scanned her employee badge, banged in a number, and transcribed the bag's bar code number. The scanner dinged and rang up the purchase. "There you go. All set." She turned to walk back to her chair.
"Wait."
She faced him. "Yes?"
"Thank you, I appreciate it."
"You're welcome."
Will felt an absurd compunction to keep the conversation going. "I just moved to town. Do you mind if I ask you something?"
She raised her ginger-colored eyebrows. "Okay?"
"Uhm, do you know a good place to eat breakfast, other than fast food?" It was a ridiculous question but it was all that came to mind.
"Well ..." She thought for a second. "Do you know where the country club is, on the north side of town? There's a place around the corner that makes great muffins."
"That sounds good. I'll check that out." He grinned. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She gave him one last smile and returned to the attendant's station.
Will gathered his bags and walked out, his head in a daze. For some reason, he figured he'd be back.
#
ANNA
Anna watched the man walk out. She told herself she wasn't eyeing his rear end and almost believed it. He was a nice-looking guy: almost six feet, with a toned, muscular body, brown eyes, close-cropped black hair, a crooked smile, a deep, soft voice, and, she thought, only a few years older than her nineteen years. She kept her eyes on him—even standing to do so—until he was out of view, then shivered.
"I saw that."
Anna wrinkled her nose, annoyed. "Saw what?"
Trina smirked at her. The rail-thin, late-twenties woman cracked her gum and wagged a finger at Anna, which caused the big bun of her hair to away back and forth. Anna noted Trina's hair was blue—this week, anyway. They'd worked together for almost a year. Anna wouldn't have quite called the woman a friend but then, she thought, she didn't have any real friends, so a coworker she kind of got along with and talked to on breaks was the next best thing.
Trina jerked her head at the exit. "I saw you watching that guy. I don't blame you, he's a cutie. Why didn't you make a move?"
"He wasn't that hot."
"Yeah, right," Trina said, all but cackling. "You should have seen the look on your face. I thought you were going to throw him to the floor and fuck him right here."
Anna glanced around. No customers were within earshot but Trina's coarse vulgarity still bothered her. She said, "No, I have self-control."
"And that's why you're still a virgin, sweetie. Well, if you don't want him, let me know if he comes back. I'll take a shot."
Anna ground her teeth as Trina strode away laughing. Under her breath, she muttered, "Bitch," though the invective lacked conviction, even to her own ears. She thought,
The thing is, she's right.
She sat back on her stool. Even though some of her coworkers complained about the store's hard seating at the work stations, Anna never complained—mostly because her own ass was well-padded enough to keep her comfortable. She knew she was carrying a few extra pounds but could never muster the motivation to wipe it away. Even though the spare weight had mostly settled in her breasts and hips, it wasn't as though she had men beating down her door anyway. With glasses, a plain face, and the mass of flaming hair, Anna had been largely overlooked by guys through high school and beyond ... hence her virginity.
It's not like I'm not interested
, she thought.
I'd love to know what the fuss was all about.
The thought made her sigh. Anna knew if she just wanted sex, she could get it from any number of man whores she knew. But finding someone that she could trust, that liked her for who she was ... that was much harder. The thought made her cringe. And even if I could, with my family situation ...
She settled into her seat and tried to keep her mind on the job.
Her shift ended around six. Anna went to the back of the store and clocked out, her trepidation growing with each moment. The only part of the day she hated more than the start of her shift was the end. She stalled until she accepted she couldn't put it off anymore, then got in her old Chevy beater and drove home.
Gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled into the driveway next to the dilapidated house. Anna gazed at the decaying structure. A shingle or two had gone missing from the roof. Vertical water stains, from rain run-off, stained the faded and peeling siding. The detached screen door leaned against the wall next to the front door. She killed the ignition and plodded to the front door. Each of the three wooden steps to the porch sagged and squealed under her steps.
Anna tried the handle and was exasperated to find it unlocked. She wondered if her mother had even bothered to lock it when she went out.
She found Florence on the couch in the darkened room, bathed in the blueish glow of the blaring television. Clad in her robe and pajamas, Florence reclined on the flattened cushions, snoring softly. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels dangled from her fingers.
Anna gathered the trash on and around the couch. An acrid smell reached her nostrils. In her drunken state, Florence had pissed herself again. It mattered little, since the ratty couch—and by extension, the whole living room—already stunk of urine. Anna never sat on that couch and knew if she ever had a chance, rather than try to clean it, she'd throw it to the curb.
She had almost finished cleaning the mess when Florence stirred. Her lids fluttered. Bleary eyes focused on Anna. "Hey. You're home."
"Hi, Mom."
Florence's lip curled. "How many tricks did you turn today?"
Anna sighed. "About fifteen. I got reamed good, in all three holes."
"Whore," Florence whispered.
