"Yeah," I said. "Another girl walked up to me and talked about it in an effort to sell me something a year ago."
"Only a year ago?" she asked and I realised it was probably more like five years ago. But before I could say anything else she took my hand and started rubbing a small, brick shaped object against the fingernail of my left middle finger like an emery board and began asking questions about me--where I lived, what I did. It was a bit like the doctor, actually, in that I sensed that this was part of a programme designed to put me at ease rather than anything based on an actual interest in my life.
She told me she was from Israel, as was the product she wished to sell me, a case of lotions and oils that cost fifty nine dollars. "And you get a picture of me," she said, pointing at a pretty girl on the box. "Just kidding! She wishes." The girl really was cute, and I almost thought she was flirting with me until I remembered the other girl had said exactly the same thing. An awful lot of scripted dialogue for a mall kiosk, if you ask me.
I still wanted to ask her to coffee, but I reminded myself of the old Onion article that was titled something like, "The Barista is Not Flirting with You."
She had a thick accent, too. Why do Jewish dames gotta be so cute?
I have one, weirdly shiny fingernail now.
Last night's tweets;
Hera beats machines at Jack in the Box.
She makes the hottest eggs between croissants.
Some seamstresses confuse panties with socks.
No-one's really sure what a clown boss wants.