October 6, 2005
Supermarket romance
I flirted with my true love at the grocery.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

This week I saw my true love at O'Malia's Food Market. I don't know his name because I never met him, and I really can't remember what he looks like, but he was "the one," I'm pretty sure.
He was tall and handsome, and from the moment we sighted each other near the lettuce, to the time it took to wind around the frozen foods, love blossomed.

We kept bumping into each other in different aisles, both manufacturing flirtatious, "ha ha, excuse me; no excuse me" demeanor. He burned poetic holes through my eyes each time.

I stood in the checkout line designed for non-cooks who're in a hurry, allowing my true love time to fetch some ice cream then meet me there. He must have had difficulty choosing a flavor because it seemed to take him forever!

I held my yogurt and skim milk, thinking, "Don't buy a candy bar in front of him, Jill; do not throw true love to the wind."

I waited. He tarried. I craned my neck to the left a couple of times looking for him and pretended to inspect the fruity drinks in a cooler. No true love anywhere: He must really like ice cream.

Finally, it was my turn to pay. I lofted the milk onto the conveyor belt and turned full circle; my true love was right behind me.

I smiled and nailed a goofy giggle.

I was frozen in stupidity and couldn't speak. If I were really 12-years-old, like I was acting, I'd at least have had my locker upon which to faint.

He stood behind me burning more holes. My face reddened; the money shook in my hand. I know true love when I feel it.

Purchase made, I thought, "Do I turn around and say goodbye?" quickly responding to myself with, "Hell, no, you dork -- leave before the quicksand buries you further."

I made it out alive, speed walking to my car. He'll always be a memory, my grocery man.
I called my friend in Atlanta, confessing my fumble.

He's known me since I was 12, so he was familiar with the style. "I should have just bought the candy bar," I exclaimed.

He said not to feel bad.

The night before he'd sat talking to a cute girl and right before he asked for her phone number, she introduced him to her stepmom, who was 32. I asked, "Well, how old was she?" and he replied, like a dork, "16!"

I laughed a genuine "ha ha," the kind that comes when you're comfortable.