No.
As Sesame Street once pointed out, one of these things is not like the others.
Besides, guys rarely enjoyed grocery shopping. At least, in Rachel’s experience, that was a no-go. Not that she had an abundance of experience with grocery shopping members of the male species, but she had enough secondhand experience people watching to know that the handsome ones were in and out and on their way.
In and out of the grocery store, that is. Other things, too, but that wasn’t a place she wanted to allow her mind to wander, because her body hadn’t wandered there in years, and she was pretty sure it was resenting her and would turn Team Molly on this one.
“The produce section is ripe for all sorts of subliminal messages, all ready for you to exploit.” Molly did the bouncy walk that was her signature. Molly walked like she lived—happy and always moving.
Rachel’s walk was more just-get-me-where-I’m-going efficiency.
“Whatever you say,” Rachel said. This reply was all-purpose and evergreen.
“You show you are confident in the way you push the cart,” Molly continued. “Show that you understand how to select and handle an eggplant. Things like that.”
This whole thing was a no for Rachel, thank-you-very-much. But Molly could do whatever Molly wanted—which was good because Molly did that anyway.
“Whatever you say,” Rachel said, again.
“Well, I say that you and I are going produce shopping later.” Molly bumped Rachel’s arm with hers.
Rachel slid her gaze to Molly. Ha. No. “I’m not doing that with you. Not when you’re in dating-Molly mode.”
“You haven’t been listening at all, have you?” Molly tsked. “I’m in dating-Rachel mode.”
Rachel stiffened. She appreciated she had someone to hang out with at the games. Especially when that someone was her bestest best friend. Even if that friend was filled to the brim with ridiculous ideas about the dating Rachel should do, and the calisthenics her downtown lady bits should take part in with members of the opposite sex.
“A guy in the produce aisle is not in the headspace for becoming an insta-dad,” Rachel insisted, looking to where her boys warmed up on the field. “He’s there to select lemons or broccoli or whatever, not pick out a future life partner.”
“Orrrr…” Molly stopped mid-stride, turned her body toward Rachel. “Maybe he’s there to squeeze a few oranges while watching potential mates stroke zucchinis to test for firmness. Thus discovering the future mother of his children.” Molly waggled her eyebrows, as though all of this made sense and wasn’t whack-a-doodle.
For the record, it made little sense and was, in fact, totally whack-a-doodle.
“I refuse to meet a man by subliminally encouraging him to ask me on a date because I stroked a banana or a zucchini or any other girthy produce.” Rachel rummaged through her handbag to search for her sunglasses as they walked. Damn, she knew she’d dropped them in there before she left the house.
“It’s not happening. If I need company, I’ll just adopt a puppy or something,” she continued. Coming up empty from the inside pocket, she turned her attention to the oversize beach bag, the one that had never seen a beach but was her own personal “bug out” bag where she kept all the things she might need for herself or her kids.
“If you don’t want to be so obvious, just squeeze a couple of cantaloupes.” Molly shrugged, clearly oblivious to Rachel’s search for eye protection and her extreme disinterest in the suggestion.
“Are you equating cantaloupe to breasts, because men like breasts?” Rachel asked, even though she knew she shouldn’t have continued engaging in Molly’s dating cray-cray.
“See! You’re catching on.” Molly nodded enthusiastically.
Rachel shook her head. She would not be doing that.
“If you use two lemons, it’s a totally different subliminal message.”
“For guys who like small breasts?” Stop. Asking.
Questions. Rachel.
“No, silly. Guys love having their”—Molly tipped her sunglasses to the edge of her nose and looked pointedly at Rachel’s crotch area—“ahem squeezed.”
Molly further illustrated this point by making two fists and squeezing.
Rachel didn’t have the equipment Molly referred to, but she still felt the urge to cross her legs. See, when life tossed lemons at Rachel, she found a recipe on Pinterest and squeezed a pitcher of lemon martinis for an impromptu girls’ night soiree. Sometimes, if she was feeling bold with her lemons, she’d mix up a pitcher of whiskey smash instead. She didn’t squeeze them to make a sexual point.
Rachel twisted her lips, paused her stride, and shook her head. “We’re done. Change of subject.”
