meet rough; choppy

"Do you... work here?"

"Do I work here...? I'd like to think so, yeah,"

Massive fumble. Massive. As if the blinking nametag under the fluorescent lighting wasn't obvious enough.

Between the tightly fisted paper sack in my hands and the jigsaw of keychains and pepper spray, I place a hand on the countertop, "I need a do over, that was abysmal, I'm sorry,"

I really can't think in front of attractive people. Every neuron in my brain fires-- but it fizzles out into stringy pink goop. And each second turns the dial on this ruddy blush until I'm sure I match the red squares on the associates gingham apron.

"How about... here,"

Slid across the countertop, in what I now recognize as a tentative bid to feed into this flustering exchange of mutual attraction, is a sample tray of...

Soaps?

This is a fragrance store.

Oh my...

Oh? This is what they have on... it's nice... I like--

It's funny how a train of thought can get you nostril deep in a strangers chest.

"You want this?"

Somewhere in that line of a pointed question is the rattling of a cellophane bag and the beeping of a nearby register.

"The soap--"

"You--"

Alright. That's a good place.

"No--!"

"Yes--!"

A wonky conversational fit, but sure.

"Yes. Yes! I would like the soap, and you-- well your number, if... it's not you know, you know,"

"Yeah, I agree, yes,"

. . .

"M'am!"

My head smacks against the heavy door and I right my handbag on my shoulder. And I realize I'm being spoken to through a cracked, and impossibly tiny gap in the stores door.

"You need to leave,"

"ButIwasgonna--"

"M'am..."

"Please you don't--"

"Leave."

I turn around a scuttle off, trying not to bump into passing shoppers while making a stumbling escape from under the curtain of my own cringe.

"Maybe I'll work up the nerve next time,"