The hard metal wheel with the red plastic covering spun in circles. The shopping cart was unbalanced on three wheels. A light turn would push the wheel down. It would immediately lock up and spin in circles. I hated that. Normally, I would have made Jeff push the rebelling shopping cart. He had been a strong guy. The only thing left to do for me was to push on over the worn out white linoleum floor with the black spots. The scarce lighting of the cheap super market reflected on the ground.
Tomato sauce, easy pasta dinner here we go, was the first stop. There were easily 20 different brands. Lots of other people were slouches during weekday evenings as well. All, except for two, disqualified themselves because of food additives, too many calories, or too much sugar. Jeff's favorite was Aunt Milano's Power Mower Sauce. My favorite was Sicilian Destiny. Obviously, there was no point in buying Aunt Milano anymore. Now that I could have Sicilian Destiny every day of the week, the thought of getting my way so easily without a battle churned my stomach. I couldn't eat my favorite that was denied to me for four happy months.
I pushed the empty shopping cart on. The display of food, aisle after aisle, made my stomach churn even more. A certain shakiness came over my body from low blood sugar. All the more easy was it for emotions to well up on me. I felt awkward, pretending to have caught something in my eye to sneak out liquid from my eyes onto my fingertips, before enough liquid could collect for a drop to form and run down my cheek. That would have been too embarrassing.
My eyes must have been red for sure. I struggled with the corner of my lips wanting to quiver. I had to get bottled water for sure. That craving of buying cigarettes, usually only once a year on a really bad day, had become day number two. That fucking asshole Jeff had slept with a blond bimbo. I threw a jar of Haagen-Dazs into the cart. Only the absolute sweetness would compel me to eat despite all of the nausea.
The checkout was the place, where I could not hide in the empty grocery store. I had to face the "Hello, how are you?" from the cashier. The cashier, neatly dressed in a cheap collard suit with all the buttons buttoned up and a cheap store colored tie, didn't even look up. I was biting on my lip to generate a stimulation that was stronger than the jerk on my tear. Every sharp stab of the corner teeth pulled me away from the quivering that wanted to roll over me each time I inhaled.
Guys would have normally stared at me. However, today I was wearing gray sweatpants and sneakers. I had even forgotten to put on low ankle socks first. I usually find bare feet in shoes so disgusting, because all the bacteria grow that way, and they smell funky quickly. My round, cosmetically enhanced breast were hidden beneath a fluffy, big shoulder strap t-shirt. I had gotten the good stuff, silicon beneath the chest muscle and inflated through the nipples to avoid leaving scars. I had diligently, daily massaged my boobs to avoid any cohesion from forming. Now, they were fluidly moving around with motion of my arms and torso.
I don't want to brag. However, my skin is really clear. I take great care of it with creams, exfoliation, and most importantly eating well. My hair is long, silky, and following. God thanks, we have modern shampoos, conditioners, and hair products to make hair everyday hair look better than special effects doctored hair commercials from twenty years ago. I take great pride in how my hair flows, when I lift it or flick my head. It's that jerk Jeff's loss. I should count myself lucky to have found out about his cheating way sooner than later.
My little silver Civic winked at me upbeat with his orange indicators and a chirp. I always loved the little welcome. I had to smile a little. I called that little guy Roger. He's taken me to so many places, into the mountains, into the desert, and onto far road trips. I snuggled myself into the bucket seats. Sure, it was only a Civic. That's all my Veterans Administration salary will pay for reviewing applications all day. However, Roger was mine. I threw the plastic bag with the groceries on the passenger seat.
From habit, my finger flicked above the center dashboard. This time, it hit empty air. There was only the oval glue outline left over from the bobble-head doll of an upbeat dog with its tail wagging. I had ripped it out in anger and thrown it out of the window somewhere on the freeway. Jeff had given it to me on our third date. He had admitted in tears to me that he was allergic to dogs. Because I had fantasized on and on about having a cute, smooth haired little doggie on our second date, he had feared that it wouldn't work out between us. He had bought me this bobble-head dog to make up. His voice was quivering, when he was saying what was up. Of course, I had to hug him and call him silly. He burried his face so deeply into my shoulder like a little boy that I was so touched that I made him my boyfriend.
Now it was me who was bawling. My eyes were watery. I could not drive even if I wanted to. The windows quickly fogged up. At least nobody could see me. The only thing warming me up in this lonely world was the seat belt, which held onto me snuggly. When I realized that the only thing in this world that loved me and cared about me was my seat belt, another wave of sobs rolled over me.
In the fog of emotion at some point, I had a clear thought. I needed to get away. I needed a change of scenery. Coming home to an empty apartment day after day with nothing to do would keep me endlessly in this loathing state. I pulled out my little iPhone and opened the last minute deals by Southwest. Las Vegas came up. A party city with lots of singles was way better than a romantic Hawaii with couples hand in hand wearing matching t-shirts. Perhaps, I would teach that jerk Jeff how much he lost by driving the men in sharp suits and shiny shoes crazy.
My fingers typed through the checkout procedure. The focus on the rational activity of entering my address and so on cleared my head. I rolled down the fogged up windows and turned the windshield wiper on. Oh boy, had I caused a lot of steam on the window. I had to chuckle a little bit. I better get home, before the next emotional downpour arrives and the ice cream melts.
When Friday arrived, I made my way to the airport. There are two horrible things about travelling alone. Number one, without a female crew, I felt vulnerable. I had to watch out on my own for creepy guys and little kids running with red lollipops to mess up my clothes. Number two, there is nobody to talk to. There are only endless awkward minutes of starring around, looking at people, hoping that people don't stare at me, avoiding eye contact with people that equally awkwardly scan the line ahead at the check-in counter and security line.
I had been dressed efficiently for the security check: Flip flops with pedicured, delicate feet and radiantly blue toe nails. I had a little dress on to get into the mood for a flirty Vegas. A little stringy thong was underneath the dress and a black push up bra for a nice juicy cleavage. I was going to rule as a queen in the city of sin, I silently laughed to myself. To be a little racy, I had put a necklace on with a Playboy pendant. Do it right or don't do it at all is my motto.
At the typical Southwest lineup at the gate, I saw a cute guy five numbers behind me. He had a broad jaw, blond crew cut, and clearly worked out. His chest had two meaty flabs. His biceps were so big that I couldn't have held onto them with my small girly hands. A black tribal tattoo ran down his forearm. He was wearing white pants and a tight white t-shirt. I know my girlfriends would have said that he looked like a gigolo. Though, I wasn't looking for a boyfriend. I was looking for attention. And he had this farm boy from Idaho look about him that made me dream about him taking me home to the farm to meet his parents in the farm house in the midst of a waving wheat field.
Smartly, I stepped five numbers farther back then I needed to with my boarding priority being B13. That way, I stood next to him. My heart was pounding. I feared equally that he had seen me move back, because that would be to embarrassing, and that he didn't notice me at all. He kept typing away on his cell phone.
Our boarding range started moving. We walked past the boarding pass check into the boarding aisle. He was still behind me and fully focused on his phone. I stealthily adjusted my hair and when my hand moved down, I lowered the dress farther down my boobs.
Nothing! He still didn't notice.
"Hey, do you have some gum?" I asked him in a desperate approach.
The blue eyes looked up from the phone and at me. My heart froze for a moment. They were so deep. There was so much presence in his eyes. I think that I stopped breathing for a moment. He had these tight manly lips that didn't betray the slightest smirk. I couldn't help imagining his lips slowly crawling over my belly delivering a million soft kisses to my delicate skin working its way around my navel.
"No," he said and looked back down at his phone.
My heart dropped. I felt super awkward having to stand next to him after he had rejected me. It was like getting an F in math and having to walk around with it written on my forehead – F is for failure.
When I boarded the plane, it dawned on me what had happened. Sure, there were many tourists and grandmas travelling as well. However, in between were other young, attractive women like me. The shoes were amazing. They were these works of arts formed by complicated or intensely impactful straps. They tended to have high platforms beneath it. There were shiny leather boots. There were artisan cowboy boots.
And the dresses were something entirely else. They were so short that purses on their laps needed to cover their underwear from peeking out. There were asymmetric dresses with cutouts at the belly in all kinds of ways. There were fabrics so sheer that the underwear color showed through. I saw quite a few nipples poking into the dress. Simply what I had thought was sexy in my small town two years ago was utterly outdone by modern Vegas style. No wonder, the cute guy didn't think anything of me. He must have thought that I was a six.
