Number three in a series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written:
Pastel greens, oranges, and yellows of the fruit salad offend me. Surely this is the easiest item in the store to consume, but it doesn't appeal to me. I really need something to appeal to me. It's definitely Sunday evening and that means my last meal was about 36 hours ago.
If I don't eat then my body will start storing fat, if it hasn't started already. Duke's mantra is ringing in my head: "There's nothing sadder than a fat junkie." Force myself to eat and then take an Ambien and then get to the gym tomorrow by seven. My life is killing me.
But my focus needs to be on the produce aisle right now. Neurons are crying out for more chemicals. Cocaine, cigarettes, Cheet-ohs. That's the bad thing about coming down. The choices suddenly aren't clear and easy choices are most appealing. The fruit salad is not appealing, but this hot man with a cart full of food suddenly walking toward me and staring me down is appealing.
My self-imposed rule about boys in the neighborhood is to avoid them at all cost based on my history of meeting manics on ManHunt. There are exceptions to every rule and these hazel eyes are rule-breakers. They stare me down as he approaches and then suddenly turn to red seedless grapes. He makes a selection and then turns to the next aisle, looking back at the last possible moment.
Now my time at Grocery-opolis is extended. I'm lifting cans, reading labels, poking loaves of bread, and mostly timing myself to see this guy every third aisle.
Then it occurs to me. Is he looking at me in interest or is it because I'm wearing sunglasses past sundown while staring at the staggering varieties of LaYogurt?
