Andrea: No one should look that good in loafers.
Making my way to the backroom, I place my belongings in the metal filing cabinet’s bottom bin.
Next, I throw on the atrocious apron and make my way out to the lane that coincidentally is furthest from Mairead.
I swear… as soon as a manager learns you get along with someone, they either put you on completely different shifts or place you as far from that person as humanly possible.
It’s surprisingly busy for a weekday. If I didn’t already know Mairead was assigned to the first lane, I wouldn’t be able to see her over the troves of early risers, carrying baskets and pushing carriages full of items.
The morning goes by rather quickly. It’s a sea of unfamiliar faces, until…
“Hello, Cindel.”
I look up to find a sharply dressed man with sandy-blond hair. He looked just as handsome as he did when I saw him at the bar.
“Hello…” I still don’t know what to call him, so I settle on, “Mr. Neat.”
His grin looks even more radiant in the brighter setting of the store.
“It’s Eamon actually,” he says as he begins unloading the items from his basket onto the conveyor belt.
“Well, ‘Eamon actually…’ it’s nice to finally put a name to your face.”
I scan three jars of cherries, a container of coarse salt, four jars of olives, and weigh ten lemons.
His smell of leather finds me, even on the other side of the counter.
“So, you're having people over?” What an obvious question. Nice job making small talk, Cindel.
His head cocks slightly. “You could say that.” He pulls his wallet out and chuckles to himself.
I chew the inside of my cheek at a loss of words. How is it that I have worked in the service industry for my entire adult life, but I still have the uncanny ability to be this socially awkward?
“Did you get my text?”
I look down at my phone seeing no new messages. Is he the one who sent that message from the unknown number? Suddenly, I realize… shit.
“I changed my number.”
His once exultant appearance slips, as he gathers his bags.
“I can take a hint.” His mouth gathers on one side of his face. “It’s okay if you don’t want to?—”
Omg! He thinks I’m brushing him off.
“Wait! It’s not that. I changed my number this morning.”
My inner cheek finds its way back between my molars. I’m really going to create a canker sore, if I don’t reel in these harmful habits.
“It’s just that…” I start.
He all but leans over the conveyor belt, the only thing separating us. Eamon is watching me, and I can’t help but stumble over my words as I watch his lips part.
Is it hot in here, because he’s not even touching me and I’m misfiring already?!
He must read that I’m having trouble constructing a sentence because he all but purrs the next phrase.
“Are you avoiding someone, Cindel?”
