MAY 10, 2011

On the Prowl

This post is part of the Fellow Writers Blog Hop, which takes place on the 2nd Tuesday of the month.

This month’s prompt is “Flash Me,” a call to write a piece of flash fiction.

* * * *

My god, she is gorgeous, a perfectly-shaped 5’4” beauty baring her arms in an orange tank top. She wears jean shorts that fall just above the crack of her ass, and with each step she takes, a delicious vision of her naked body flashes through my mind. I mean, she isn’t wearing more than four pieces of clothing, and that includes her pair of sandals (I’ll count that as two)! Her auburn hair is shoulder length with a hint of waviness, likely from the humid July heat, and the way she glances sideways to the right and then to the left, looking both coy and seductive revs my hormones into high gear. I follow her, maintaining a respectable distance.

A very large woman is trying to squeeze by on my left. She clicks her tongue at me as if I’m purposely blocking her way and then bangs into me, continuing on without apologizing. Bitch. I’m tempted to say it aloud, but I don’t need to get into an altercation, not with orange tank top less than twenty feet away.

I manage to put a few items into my basket—celery, a bag of carrots, and a cucumber. It’s not much, but we are just beginning. I love the way she moves—slow—deliberate—and I’m enjoying every minute of it. If she’s like most women, she’ll be going through the entire store anyway. That used to drive me crazy when buying groceries with my ex. She’d walk up and down each aisle regardless if she needed anything from it. She even went through the pet food section. She didn’t own a pet! I can still remember her words as she tried to sell her ridiculous logic to me.

Ex: “I go through every aisle ‘cuz I don’t know what I might need until I see it.”

Me: “Ever consider making a list?”

Ex: “Yes, but sometimes they move things around.”

Me: “Like when they put the butter on the same shelf as the dog food?”

We lasted five months, too long in my estimation.

Orange tank top is taking a long time getting her salad stuff. She’s buying that red lettuce and picking from the assorted greens as well. Now, she’s moving into the fruit department. I’ve added bananas and a pineapple into my basket. I’m not even a big fan of fruit, but I think it makes me look good, particularly the pineapple. She, on the other hand, must love fruit. She’s picking out bags of mangos, plums, cartons of blueberries and strawberries, and a strange yellow thing shaped like a giant pear. I suppose that could be my “in” with her. I could say something like: “That’s an unusual piece of fruit, what do you call it?” That’s not too forward and doesn’t sound completely idiotic. Maybe a better line might me “I noticed those strawberries in your cart, perhaps you need some whipped cream to go with them.” Shit, I need to stop thinking with my dick for one second. She’s picking up the pace now, have to pay attention, off to the meats!

It’s really busy in this section, so it’s easy to observe her without being obvious. Judging from her slim build, I’d guess she only eats chicken—no, wait, an even better guess would be turkey. I watch her as she bypasses the poultry. Well, I completely misread that one. She’s heading straight for the red meat, throws in three large trays of ground beef, and in what appears as an afterthought, a few T-bones as well. I think I’m in love! If there’s one thing that really turns me on, it’s a woman who knows how to eat.

We’re moving on to condiments now. She’s leaning over her cart. Her forearms are folded over the handlebar, pushing her breasts forward. She’s taking her time, swaying her hips as she moves alongside the shelf of jams. Great, compact ass! She picks up a jar of apricot jam, reads the ingredients, and puts it back on the shelf. She does this four more times before finally deciding on one. I don’t know what the difference between one jam and another could be. There, that’s another line I could use, “I noticed you looking at the jams. Do you recommend any one in particular?” That’s kind of innocent. Then she’d probably look in my basket, notice my pineapple, and we could have a conversation about fruit.

A woman and her child are in front of me, and the kid’s sitting in the cart screaming and throwing things out of it. She’s trying to discipline him. Yeah, good luck with that, lady. The little shit has just dropped a container of raspberries on the floor, and the fruit has spilled across the aisle. What a mess. I quickly tiptoe around the minefield of berries trying to find Miss Sexy Shorts. I’ve lost sight of her. She must have turned the corner already.

Toiletries row—where is she? I can’t believe she’s skipped this one. It’s full of shampoos and other crap that women just love to look at. I hop over to the next aisle and find her standing by the cereals. She’s probably going to read ingredients again. I’m guessing she wants something low in sugar and high in fiber. I think I must watch too much T.V. because I can’t believe I know that about cereal. She’s throws a box of Honeycomb into her cart. Hmm. Maybe she has a kid, though she looks too young for that, and I don’t see a wedding band. Maybe she just likes Honeycomb.

I suddenly realize I haven’t put anything in my basket since the pineapple. I grab the first box of cereal I see—Grape-Nuts. I’ve never even heard of it before. The picture on the box shows a bowl filled with granules that look like bird feed. There are no grapes and no nuts. Who thinks of these names? I spy a box of Cheerios just ahead and quickly replace the Grape-Nuts on the shelf.

Jean shorts is now in the cold section. On a scorcher like today, being near refrigeration has its advantages. She opens the door to the ice cream and a fog of frigid air escapes. Reaching in to grab a couple of tubs of Cherry Garcia, I notice she has the most incredible nipples I’ve ever seen. They jut out from under her tight top at least an inch. Fuck. I love that she’s not wearing a bra, and nothing turns me on more than long, hard nipples on a woman. I immediately feel my cock stiffen and tug at my crotch to adjust myself. That’s when I notice her looking in my direction. She smiles at me with her eyes, acknowledging my existence. I feel like an idiot as I try to hide that I’m semi-erect. I smile back, and then from nowhere the words fly out of my mouth, “Hi, may I ask you a question?”

I walk toward her, hoping she doesn’t notice the bulge in my pants.

She has beautiful full lips, and I keep my eyes fixed on her face, averting my gaze from the nipples that I so desperately want to see up close.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is sweet, and I feel relieved that she’s not intimidated by talking to a stranger.

“I couldn’t help but notice that unusual fruit you have in your cart. What is it?”

“You mean this?” She picks up the giant pear. “It’s a pomelo. Have you never tried it?”

“No. I’ve never even heard of it. How do you eat it?” This is turning into wonderful foreplay conversation.

“Well, it’s a citrus fruit, similar to a grapefruit but with a thicker skin. The meat inside is much firmer and not as juicy.”

“It sounds exotic, where’s it from?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure.” She’s really thinking about it and not just trying to give me the brush-off. “I think it’s somewhere in Asia.”

“Yes, they have good fruit in Asia.” Lame, very lame, I can’t believe I said that. “I prefer pineapple myself.”

“I see you bought one,” she says, eyeing my basket. “Do you know you can get it cut here?”

“Really?” I have no idea since I’ve never bought a pineapple before in my life.

“Yes, it’s a whole lot easier than doing it yourself.”

“Thanks, I’ll check into it.”

I feel more comfortable now. She’s so easy to talk to. We’ve been standing still for a while when she starts pushing her cart again. I walk alongside her, chatting her up some more.

“You must be having a party. You’re certainly buying a lot of meat.” Good change of topic. I feel proud of myself for this line.

“Yes, my annual Girls-Only B-B-Q.”

“Oh? How interesting.” I feign enthusiasm. I can’t believe I’ve been following around a lesbian for the last half hour. I could sure pick ‘em. “There are no men at all?”

“Nope.”

“Why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking.” I don’t even care if I sound too nosy.

“Well, once a year, I invite all my female friends for a get-together—no boyfriends, no husbands, no kids. It’s just a fun day for the girls.” She pauses and looks at me with a serious expression. “We’re not a bunch of male bashers if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh no! I wasn’t thinking that at all.” Yes, I was, I most certainly was.

“I hope you’re not trying to snag an invite ‘cuz you’re not getting one. Nothing against you personally, but you’re the wrong sex!”

I laugh. “That’s the nicest invitation I am not getting.” She has such a playful way with words. Her smile practically invites me to kiss her, and those bedroom eyes …

“Yes, my boyfriend jokes about me being a sexist when I kick him out of the house for the day. He’s really…”

I don’t hear much after that. I knew it was too good to be true. For a moment, it felt like we were flirting, and maybe we were. She has a boyfriend, damn it. I didn’t expect that, or maybe I just didn’t want to think about it.

“Hey, are you all right?” she asks as I’ve suddenly become quiet.

“Yeah, I’m good. That’s nice of your boyfriend to let all those women come by without him there.”

“Yes, he’s cool that way. It gives him a chance to be out with the boys.” She reaches into the front pocket of her shorts, and I follow the movement of her hand, look her up and down, sighing to myself at the sight of her nipples. “Oh, I’m late,” she says as she checks the time on her cell phone. “I must run. It’s been good talking to you.”

“Yeah, you too.” I try not to sound too deflated. “Have a great time at your party.”

“Thanks.” A smile, a look, and then she is gone.

I watch her leave. Just like that, she’s out of my life, fantasy over. I add a can of frozen orange juice and a carton of milk to my basket before making my way to the cash, heading straight for the Express 1-8 items line.

“Hi there. Did you find everything you needed?”

I look up to see the young, attractive cashier who is scanning my cucumber.

“Hi,” I say and notice she has great lips, no lipstick. I love that.

“Is that all for today?”

“Yes.” I gaze at her ample cleavage and read her name tag. “Lola. What a great name.”

“Why thank you, it’s Spanish.” She offers up a shy smile.

“Well, hello Lola, my name’s Robert.”

* * * *

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