Love at First Bite

I first saw her in the produce aisle during the 24th hour of the 24-hour Sobeys. I recall being unable to move, breathe or register that the woman behind me was asking to get to the broccoli. Her beauty was unmatchable: she was that special kind of sexy that could make asexuals horny as rabbits. She sported freshly shaven uggs and a delicate merino wool sweater—the kind that made me envious of the lucky sheep whose hair wound up hugging her bosom all day. Her hair was a golden blonde that could force dandelions into retirement; her pupils loomed out of the greenness of her irises as a puma would in a baseball field. How the puma got onto the green, nobody knows.

I spent several intent minutes admiring her from the bulk nuts, contemplating my approach. In contrast with her miniature monolithic beauty, I stood with the sexual prowess of a young Woody Allen. Every part of my body was intimidated as much as it was intrigued: my toes were scared to meet her toes; my ankles no match for hers; my eyebrows seemed like nothing by comparison, and not just because of my alopecia.

“What would I say? I’m bad with words.
Specifically, speaking them”

I pictured myself walking up to her, casually, my unworthy fingers daring to tap her the slender blade of her shoulder, which alone bested all parts of my body. She’d turn, taken aback as to why a man who bore such a striking resemblance to Quasimodo would bother approaching her at all. But before she’d have a chance to register my numerous imperfections, I’d act hastily in her confusion like a gazelle in a thunderstorm, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, such as…

“I’ve got sweet nothing.”

What would I say? I’m bad with words. Specifically, speaking them. She’d see through my guise and instinctively beat me up, or worse—roll her eyes and walk away.

What about eye contact? I could leer at her from the coffee aisle, gesturing my finger in a “come-hither” fashion. After she’s hypnotically drawn towards me, I would use the coffee as a perfect segue for our first date: “How’s about you and I pour coffee over each other’s naked bodies?”

I contemplated circumventing the kosher section to wind up with the condiments, where I could really lay my trap. She’d never get past aisle three—with her foot caught in the bear trap, I’d leap to her rescue, taking just enough time securing her foot from the metal jaws that I could ask her name, hobbies and personal ambitions; she’d be so grateful that she’d have to go to bed with me, right there among the Dijon mustards.

“She’d slowly raise her head to
look me in the eye: “You had me
at the Jell-o,” she’d confess”

Conversely, I could just talk to her. I’d wait for her by the waffles, pretending to peruse the whole-grain cheeses—when she’s finished her shopping, I’d say, “Excuse me—sorry—we haven’t met or anything, but… well, I just think you’re really cute and seem pretty interesting, and I think we passed each other a few aisles back and I just kind of wanted to say that, sorry.”

She’d pause a moment, catching herself, thinking it all over—did that just really happen? Does anyone ever have the balls to do that, let alone a nebbish computer programmer with a shopping cart filled mostly with 39-cent Mr. Noodles and Blue-flavoured Gatorade?

She’d slowly raise her head to look me in the eye: “You had me at the Jell-o,” she’d confess, flinging herself into my shopping cart, sliding her legs through the openings made for six-year-olds, just before we’d race down the aisles, into the sun-dried tomato-coloured-sun…

“Excuse me, sorry—”

A voice woke me from my love-struck stupor—a female voice! I spun around, mouth wet with anticipation of the best French kiss of my life, only to find the stringy-haired 40-year-old Manager On Duty, whose face seemed to perpetually resemble Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”.

“Sir, you’re drooling on our floor.”

Alas! Indeed I had been. So much for the French kiss. But, wait, where was my well-woolen, blonde-haired enchantress? Confound the world! Hesitation truly is the bane of man.

I leapt to the parking lot in one grand bound with the hope of finding her; otherwise, how were we expected to start a family, rent a Honda Civic and argue over mortgages?

The Scream watched me gallop off, then stared at my salivated puddle.

“Clean up in aisle one?”