jentropy

Slate tugged the greasy black strands across his shining scalp, thighs cramping at the squat required to see his reflection in the minivan window. He had to keep moving so his flip-flops wouldn’t melt to the pavement, pink plastic straps hidden under wide-bottom polyester plaid. He gathered the shopping carts and returned them to the stall, just out of camera sweep reach.

He spotted the girl as she stepped from her car, jerking at the trapped designer bag. She was better equipped for this scorcher, with her bare limbs and cotton scraps. Lacey blonde tresses bounced with nods at her telephone appendage and he raised an unkempt eyebrow. She parked her peachy dream away from violent truck doors and demon carts.

She was the one. The last one screamed and he had to run and find a new lot. Slate kept his mind sharp reciting schoolboy poems, timelines and lists. He watched the exit. She was taking her time and he hoped she wouldn’t bring out a full cart. Then again, maybe she would be friendlier if he helped unload.

The girl emerged, still attached to the phone, a prescription package in her other hand. He slunk towards her convertible, scoping his escape in the lot he knew so well. He reached the car before her, and she seemed irritated, but unafraid. He kept his filthy hands behind his back this time.

She bagged the phone and held her splayed her keys, white-knuckled and fierce. Slate cleared his throat and delivered his practiced line, “Excuse me, Miss. Uhhh. I’m trying to get a job here. Just pushing carts. Ummm. This is weird.”

She squinted at his uncontrollably outstretched hands, “Could I just use you for a reference? I only need a name and phone number.” Her manicured hand slid into her bag and he added, “Please!”