Receipt

The girl at the register is cute. I pretend to casually glance her way, until I make out the name on her nametag. Laura. She has long dark hair, a fair complexion, and is thin. Very thin. I could probably break any of her bones, easily. I want to take her home and make her sandwiches until she reaches more human proportions. She is polite but not nosy, as any good cashier should be. She asks me how my day is. Fine, I say, how is yours? She shrugs I’ve had better. She rings up my items and asks if I want them in a bag. All I purchased was a small box of nails and a small box of ceiling hangers. And a jar of real peanut butter. The good stuff. I think I can handle it, I say with a grin. Are you sure, she asks, these are pretty dangerous. No, I’ve been lifting lots of weight lately, for this exact purpose. All right, she says, have a nice night. You to I say, headed for the door. What an idiot, I think to myself. That’s all you could manage to say? I’ve been lifting weights? Nice one, meathead. By the time my first foot falls outside the door, I’ve thought of at least a thousand better things I could have said. I live for danger. I’ve received all the proper training for these situations. It’s okay, I’m impervious to puncture wounds. The list goes on. By the time I put my key in the car door, I’m half-convinced I should turn around, walk back in there and holler don’t worry about me, I thrive under hazardous conditions. But I don’t. I drive home and pretend like I said something funnier, wittier. I pretend that after I impressed her with a clever remark, she asks for my signature on the receipt, and just before I can finish writing my last name she also asks for my phone number. That shit only happens in movies, I guess. And maybe Nicholas Sparks novels. My life is not a Nicholas Sparks novel, which is sort of a blessing and a curse. Blessing: I never gag on sentimentality in my day-to-day life. Curse: I never fall madly in love with the awkwardly beautiful soulmate.


A semi-true tale, and a product of the same day that saw Killing Jerry Seinfeld's genesis. I usually operate like that: weeks and weeks of sloth and disinterest followed by a day or two of frenzied productivity, then more sloth. Not too sure this piece has a future, though. At least not on its own. Perhaps it will see life as part of something else. Perhaps it will be left here, on this digital page, to die and rot into obscurity.