posted by susan-oh-susan / march 6 at 7:45 pm / uncategorized / 16 comments / TOC of Susan’s published posts
As I’ve said, I’ve been baking.
And NOT using Marcella’s hideous sex toy.
I mean, seriously? Who came up with this? How is this sexy?
Anyway, I’ve been baking, and I’ve finished everything except for Nika’s cherry pie, because I ended up not buying any cherries, because of that whole almost killing the stock boy thing.
So this morning I went to the grocery store.
I shaved my legs before covering them with jeans to go to the grocery store for absolutely no reason whatsoever except that I think I hadn’t shaved them since Christmas.
I also shaved my armpits. And my bikini line. Because apparently I’m planning on going sunbathing soon.
Women are so stupid.
I am so stupid.
Yes, I did all this because, stock boy.
Sticky stock boy.
I can’t believe I’m telling you guys this.
No stock boy.
I roamed the entire store, up and down every aisle, three times.
Pathetic, I know.
I found the cherries.
I thought, “Oh, god, suppose he got fired because of the accident?”
I almost cried.
In the middle of Aisle Three. Not that that’s important. Except that’s where we met.
I stood there for a few minutes feeling stupid.
And then… feeling really good.
Like… ok, this is hard to explain. But quite apart from all the smashing and him cutting his hands and me scraping my knees—just before all that happened? I felt like total and utter shit.
And then—I had these arms around me, and my head in the crook of a neck and shoulder—and is there anything more amazing than that? That moment of safety, comfort, neck-and-shoulder?
I used to love it so much. When John…
And when the boys were little, when they were babies, toddlers, the early school years—that’s where they always sought comfort from me too. That space, that place.
I loved it.
So standing there in that aisle—Aisle Three—I went from feeling stupid… to feeling really good… and to feeling really free and no longer stupid. Because I knew that it wasn’t about the stock boy. And his arms and his neck. It was just that when I was feeling awful, another human being put his arms around me and let me cry into his neck, and that made life beautiful.
So I cradled two jars of cherries in my arms as if they were comfort-seeking babies and took them to the check out.
“Hi!” he smiled at me as he took the cherries. “It is so funny—I was wondering if you meant to buy any of the cherries you broke. I mean, I broke. We broke.” He smiled again.
Me? Sweaty palms.
Also, possibly, drool.
“I… need to make cherry pie. For my daughter-in-law,” I said. Why did I say that? I made myself sound old. And Nika is not my daughter-in-law. Yet. Or possibly ever.
In my head, these thoughts: he’s going to say, “Daughter-in-law? You don’t look old enough to have a daughter-in-law?” and I will say, “I’m forty-three,” and he will think, oh, old woman, and he will stop smiling at me.
I stared at his name tag. It said, “Reza.”
“I love cherry pie,” he said. “That’ll be $15.98. Wow, that’s expensive for two little jars. You know, in my country, cherries—not like these ones, but… you don’t have them here, we call them sour cherries but they are not like your sour cherries—they are everywhere. They’re my favourite fruit. My mother makes the most amazing jams from them. Just talking about it makes me homesick.”
This thought: Great. He already thinks of me as his mother.
“Do you want your receipt?” I shook my head. “I’m so glad to see you again. I need to thank you. Because I was going to quit this job yesterday. It’s a good store and nice people, but filling shelves with cans and mopping floors is more boring than I thought it would be. So I was going to quit. And then, yesterday, we have our crash. And after I clean up the mess, I go to the manager, and I said, well, I was going to quit and now I made this big mess, so I think you should fire me. And she said, why should I fire you? And I said, so I don’t have to quit. And she said—do you want to be a cashier? So I got promoted. And this is much more fun. And, I got to see you again, and if I had quit, I wouldn’t.”
He really said all this.
At least, I think that’s what he said.
I may have imagined some of it.
I was just standing there. Drooling.
I managed to make it home somehow.
And make cherry pie.
Would it be weird if I took a slice for him?
16 comments on As I’ve said, I’ve been baking:
BeautifulThingsEveryday: For fuck’s sake, Susan, describe the boy’s face.
sugar&spice76: Middle Eastern?
mommyshidinginthebathroom3: I googled Reza. Probably Persian? That is, Iranian?
FemmeFataleFun: Oh, yum, I love Persian men. Except they’re really, really sexist. But between the sheets that’s not such a bad thing.
mommyshidinginthebathroom3: You said it, girlfriend.
BeautifulThingsEveryday: I’m not a fan, myself. Prefer Latin boys. And girls.
susan-oh-susan: I have no idea what he looks like. I haven’t actually raised my eyes to his face, because… well. I haven’t. But what I need to know is… so do I take him a slice of pie? Or is that too weird?
ilikeherbooty-full: I’d totally fuck you in exchange for a slice of homemade cherry pie.
susan-oh-susan: Ugh, who is this? Go away! Why did you say that?
BeautifulThingsEveryday: Susan, when are you going to learn to delete your fucking spam comments?
ilikeherbooty-full: I’m not spam: one hundred per cent real legit human. Didn’t mean to be offensive. But you’re into this dude, right? And want to keep things going? Take him the pie.
FemmeFataleFun: Take him the pie. And look at his face.
mommyshidinginthebathroom3: And tell us what he looks like.
sugar&spice76: And how old he is. I’m getting the impression that he’s really young? Is he? Maybe I’m just inferring that from “stock boy.”
ilikeherbooty-full: Hey, if I send you my address, will you FedEx me some pie?
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