KYRAN
Narrowly avoiding another cart collision, I lean over the packaged beef options with a scowl. I despise being out at this time, there is always an excessive amount of people shopping on a Friday afternoon. At least this is only a monthly trip, I don’t think I’d manage more than one busy public outing very well; the general public disconcerts me. Unfortunately, my drive home will be half an hour longer today since I am in the fancy grocery market across town because of the weekend special being half-off beef and poultry. I should just assign food shopping to Treyvar since he actually enjoys socializing—hell, he thrives in it. Although, I suppose I could benefit from the occasional time away from the pack and have some personal space to myself.
With a sigh, I position my selection of a final stack of scrumptious ribeye steaks on top of my full cart and proceed to the front of the store to checkout. A frown pinches my face as I glimpse two gossipy older women squawking like hens and my footsteps falter as I notice how their carts are ignorantly positioned in the main aisle, preventing my passage. Grimacing, I glance over my shoulder to find an elderly couple behind me hunched over something they pulled off of an endcap. Forced to either turn into the baking section filled with the potent scents of detestable chocolate or face the doom that is a middle-aged woman hellbent on not going home to her loathsome husband, I swiftly decide holding my breath for thirty seconds is the superior choice.
Dragging the cart around the corner, I walk briskly until halfway down the aisle I notice a petite, curvy, blonde-haired woman struggling to reach the top shelf at the far end. I pause, briefly considering turning back and finding another route, but the image of the two hens flashes in my mind and I suppress a shudder. Damn this baking aisle, and this grocery store for that matter, to hell, I mutter internally as I continue down the cursed aisle, finding myself slightly amused with the woman’s attempts of climbing the shelf as if she's a squirrel scaling a tree. I hear her breath puffing with each reach accompanied by groans of frustration. She mumbles something I can’t quite make out with her last attempt at obtaining who-knows-what at the back of the top shelf. As she stretches onto her tiptoes to reach far overhead, the movement accentuates her body in an enticing way, drawing my eyes down over her dips and curves—stop, enough. She is a woman, not a piece of meat to drool over like a dog. You’re better than that, I chastise myself.
Momentarily squeezing my eyes shut and pausing, I take a short breath in through my mouth, release it slowly and inhale deeply to hold once more. Without ogling at her like an animal, I notice how her platinum blonde hair is messily twisted into a loose bun atop her head, that she has flour splotches on the front of her baggy gray t-shirt and across her black leggings. Glancing down, I realize that she is wearing the same footwear as me with tan, fleece-lined moccasins. I feel a slight smile grow at the similarity.
Offer her some assistance, or are you just going to stand here like a fool? Clearing my throat as I approach, I remark, “You look like you could use some help,” and flash a grin.
“Yes, I could,” she huffs, pushing stray hairs away from her face with her free hand as she stays perched on the shelving.
With her footing being on the second shelf, it puts her at eye-level with me and as she glances over at me, I notice how her eyes are such a striking crystal blue. It causes me to inhale sharply, making my head swim from the overbearing scents filling the aisle both odious and intoxicating. As if transfixed, I cannot bring myself to tear my gaze from hers. Within just a single moment, this woman has fully captivated me. She is ethereal with her large, almond shaped ice-blue eyes, her shiny, pale blonde hair pulled back with loose pieces lightly framing her delicate jawline and accentuating the soft taper to her narrow chin. I smirk at the cute upward curve of her dainty nose and her supple, pale pink lips slightly part beneath my gaze. Her smooth, alabaster skin seems silken, beckoning me for a caress from my fingertips.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
This woman seems ageless, and she is undoubtedly the most beautiful, breathtaking woman I have ever seen in my entire life. Probably will ever see, I muse as my eyes flutter slightly with the sudden compulsion to inhale deeply through my nose. I nearly become intoxicated from her magnificent scent of rich jasmine combined with the crisp, fresh aroma the air holds after a snowfall, and it makes me blissfully unsteady. She smells the way moonlight feels, bright, free, like home, I realize with a slight shiver. I blink rapidly and hold my breath as I break my gaze to reach above this enchanting woman. I grasp the boxed item and gently hand it to her before I hastily grab my cart and rush out of the aisle without speaking. Heading toward the closest empty checkout lane, I am immensely grateful that there isn’t a line, and I release the pressure in my chest in a whoosh as I scrub my right hand over my face, quietly groaning.
Who is she? Why didn’t you catch her name? Go back and find her, Valdr demands.
Shaking my head, I promptly empty all the meat packages onto the conveyor belt, stack the bagged ones back into the cart and swipe my card through the reader, all the while repeatedly looking over my shoulder as if by chance I will catch a glimpse of that alluring woman again.
“Sir? Your receipt,” the cashier stares at me pointedly, holding a long, narrow slip of paper out toward me over the register. She raises an eyebrow at me in a silent question.
“Thank you,” I murmur while I take the receipt and crumple it into my pocket as I make my way out of the busy market and into the fading sunlight, pushing my cart across the cracked asphalt to my waiting truck. Tossing the rolled paper bags into my large coolers stowed in the bed of my truck, I snap the lids shut and close the tailgate. More precisely, I unlatch the tailgate and slam it up a second time to ensure it stays closed, knowing how the damned thing pops open with a mean pothole from time to time.
Ol’ Bertha is a black 1988 GMC Sierra 1500, she’s been everywhere with me since I bought her on a whim during the holidays of ‘87 off the showroom floor of the fancy dealership out in the city. Pulling open the creaky door, I hop onto the seat, being mindful to avoid the old tear in the edge seam of the bench and fire up the engine with a thunderous start. Yanking the door shut with a pop—the hinge sticks if it’s opened too wide—I settle back into the comfortably worn and faded maroon bench seat, shift into first, and head home.
After rolling the window crank down, I rest my arm on the frame to steer while I press up on the radio volume to better hear my favorite tape over the wind. Treyvar insists I take some of our bar earnings and buy myself a brand-new, full-size pickup to replace this ‘shitbox’, but I love this ol’ gal. The way I see it, she runs clean and is in good shape, although she’s got some characteristics about her. I like the old saying of ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. To me, Ol’ Bertha is the best truck I could ever ask for. Rubbing my thumb on the smooth steering wheel, I praise, “Bertha, you know you’ll always be my number one gal,” and smirk as ‘This Old Truck’ begins to bounce from the crackly speakers.
Four times in the hour-long drive home, I caught myself wondering about those icy blue eyes and the desire to gaze into them once more, wanting to breathe in her intoxicating scent again which still lingers even now, forever to remain with me.