hand it over.
“Thanks.” He takes it with a wink and heads to the kitchen. I want a reason to follow to see what he’s doing with the label maker, but I can’t think of an excuse, so I sit and admire his butt as he walks away.
A moment later, the dryer’s buzzer goes off, and I scurry to the kitchen. In Blake’s hand is the special sugar for the teas. We keep it in a glass jar labeled “Fair-Trade Raw Sugar” so everyone knows how green and eco-friendly we are. I arch an eyebrow at him as I open the dryer door and pull out a towel. He turns the jar, and I immediately see no difference.
Then I realize that instead of saying “Fair-Trade Raw Sugar,” the little red label says “Forced-Labor Raw Sugar.”
“Forced-labor raw sugar?”
He scrunches up his face. “God, that label’s been bugging me for months. Yeah, fair-trade sugar is such bullshit. Fair pay would be worth promoting. Frigging hippies.”
I ugly-laugh at this unexpectedly delightful turn of events. Finally, an ally in this place. “And Gandhi forbid you bring in chocolate that isn’t certified organic.” I tap the jar. “You have no idea how much I love this. Why can’t you work here full-time?”
He grins. “Too much of a good thing? Don’t tell on me.” He nods at the jar.
“No way. It’s more fun this way.”
He disappears into his client’s room to get to work. I wonder how long it will take for the hippies to notice. But their anticipated reaction isn’t even the coolest part—it’s the inside joke, and also Blake changing the label in the first place. He didn’t do it for a reaction; he just did it for the sake of doing it. He knows the label is there, and that is all that matters to him. That the label bugged him enough to bother creating a new one for his own peace of mind is one of the funniest things I’ve seen.
Oh, I could like Blake a lot.
I decide to wait until the load of towels is finished in the washer. I’ll put them in the dryer and make a quick getaway to salvage the rest of the evening.
Might as well check out the Missed Connections while I’m here waiting. I normally wouldn’t surf the Internet at work, but since the hippies called me in on my day off for no reason, I feel a certain degree of latitude is warranted.
It was that look in your eyes.
I look at lots of people.
It’s uncommonly rare to find a woman in passing who will give you direct eye contact. Most avert their gazes, denying the smallest, yet most important connection two people can share.
Okay so far.
You walked in the north entrance of Fairway, and our eyes met.
Not me.
I guess it’s true though. I don’t look strangers in the eye for long, not wanting to encourage an unwanted interaction. Some guys skip being assertive and land in aggressive, and I’d rather avoid the awkward moment when I have to convince a guy I’m really not interested. The catcalling is especially out of hand now that it’s hot out. If one more strange man tells me to smile, I swear to God…
You, Polka Dots
I wore polka dots last week.
So just a few minutes ago at the deli at 3rd and 34th, you, polka-dot miniskirt, and I shared a long look. Wanted to get closer to you in line, but it didn’t happen. I left with another long look to see what would happen. Polka Dots, if you read this, we should do something about it.
Kind of cute how he calls her Polka Dots, but definitely not me.
Daniel. Barber. Nose Ring.
This one’s just someone looking for their old barber because they went to the shop and got a “mediocre haircut from someone else.” Guess I’m spoiled to have Pete at my beck and call when it comes to my hair.
For the Third Week in a Row
Could be about my transit habits.
For the third time in three weeks, the shower in the gym was crowded and my penis was the smallest. Needed to get that off my chest.
I snort, laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
Blake’s voice from behind me makes me jump, but the hands that begin rubbing my shoulders
“Thanks.” He takes it with a wink and heads to the kitchen. I want a reason to follow to see what he’s doing with the label maker, but I can’t think of an excuse, so I sit and admire his butt as he walks away.
A moment later, the dryer’s buzzer goes off, and I scurry to the kitchen. In Blake’s hand is the special sugar for the teas. We keep it in a glass jar labeled “Fair-Trade Raw Sugar” so everyone knows how green and eco-friendly we are. I arch an eyebrow at him as I open the dryer door and pull out a towel. He turns the jar, and I immediately see no difference.
Then I realize that instead of saying “Fair-Trade Raw Sugar,” the little red label says “Forced-Labor Raw Sugar.”
“Forced-labor raw sugar?”
He scrunches up his face. “God, that label’s been bugging me for months. Yeah, fair-trade sugar is such bullshit. Fair pay would be worth promoting. Frigging hippies.”
I ugly-laugh at this unexpectedly delightful turn of events. Finally, an ally in this place. “And Gandhi forbid you bring in chocolate that isn’t certified organic.” I tap the jar. “You have no idea how much I love this. Why can’t you work here full-time?”
He grins. “Too much of a good thing? Don’t tell on me.” He nods at the jar.
“No way. It’s more fun this way.”
He disappears into his client’s room to get to work. I wonder how long it will take for the hippies to notice. But their anticipated reaction isn’t even the coolest part—it’s the inside joke, and also Blake changing the label in the first place. He didn’t do it for a reaction; he just did it for the sake of doing it. He knows the label is there, and that is all that matters to him. That the label bugged him enough to bother creating a new one for his own peace of mind is one of the funniest things I’ve seen.
Oh, I could like Blake a lot.
I decide to wait until the load of towels is finished in the washer. I’ll put them in the dryer and make a quick getaway to salvage the rest of the evening.
Might as well check out the Missed Connections while I’m here waiting. I normally wouldn’t surf the Internet at work, but since the hippies called me in on my day off for no reason, I feel a certain degree of latitude is warranted.
It was that look in your eyes.
I look at lots of people.
It’s uncommonly rare to find a woman in passing who will give you direct eye contact. Most avert their gazes, denying the smallest, yet most important connection two people can share.
Okay so far.
You walked in the north entrance of Fairway, and our eyes met.
Not me.
I guess it’s true though. I don’t look strangers in the eye for long, not wanting to encourage an unwanted interaction. Some guys skip being assertive and land in aggressive, and I’d rather avoid the awkward moment when I have to convince a guy I’m really not interested. The catcalling is especially out of hand now that it’s hot out. If one more strange man tells me to smile, I swear to God…
You, Polka Dots
I wore polka dots last week.
So just a few minutes ago at the deli at 3rd and 34th, you, polka-dot miniskirt, and I shared a long look. Wanted to get closer to you in line, but it didn’t happen. I left with another long look to see what would happen. Polka Dots, if you read this, we should do something about it.
Kind of cute how he calls her Polka Dots, but definitely not me.
Daniel. Barber. Nose Ring.
This one’s just someone looking for their old barber because they went to the shop and got a “mediocre haircut from someone else.” Guess I’m spoiled to have Pete at my beck and call when it comes to my hair.
For the Third Week in a Row
Could be about my transit habits.
For the third time in three weeks, the shower in the gym was crowded and my penis was the smallest. Needed to get that off my chest.
I snort, laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
Blake’s voice from behind me makes me jump, but the hands that begin rubbing my shoulders
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