I have been harboring a secret.
A few weeks ago, romance once again stalked me at the Save A Lot. Yes, it's been a while since that fateful New Year's Day when a woman followed me through the store, proclaimed me to be SO PRETTY, and stroked my arm. But a potential new significant other has once again appeared upon the horizon.
This one was of the male persuasion. There I was, boxing my reasonably-priced foodstuffs at the long counter under the front window. Out of the corner of my left eye, I spied a wiry little hillbilly. His hairstyle would best be described as Eddie Van Halen in his medium-length era, only dirty-blond (the color, not the cleanliness quotient). Little Hillbilly's country ensemble was composed of the requisite white wife-beater, a pair of nondescript jeans, and white leather hightop sneakers, the style of which was popular in the 1980s. His height brought him a bit past my shoulder.
At first I assumed he wanted to grab a plastic bag. I was blocking one of four bag-dispensers. There was a lady on the back side of me at another one. But two were still available to my left. Little Hillbilly held out his hand. I glanced his way. He was proffering money! Paper money! I met his gaze.
"Oops! Sorry! I thought you were someone else."
Was that some kind of pickup line? Was he mistaking me for a prostitute? Was he a chubby-chaser? A future country singer with a rap sheet a mile long wishing me to be the Lib Hatcher to his Randy Travis? Little Hillbilly was a congenial dude. He chuckled at himself.
"Here we go." He went to the lady behind me. She might have been his mom. Or his Lib Hatcher. He handed her the money. And apologized again. "I really need to watch what I'm doing. Heh, heh."
I really need to start wearing my wedding ring when I shop at Save A Lot.