"No, listen," I said, gathering myself, "a while ago I caught a performance of yours. This jerk was hitting on you and you totally stunned him by proposing marriage. Remember that?"
"That's what I do," the lesbian said, "nail jerks who are out to nail me. But, yes, I do remember that particular encounter."
"Ya, that Bob; he's a hard jerk to forget."
"No, I mean you. I remember you, standing by the hot sauce, holding your hand over your face."
I stood up, held a hand over my face. Odd, I could have sworn she hadn't noticed me that day across from the meat case. And there it was in a nutshell; what had been tripping up the stalking male since the Eden exodus: Those damned nesting females, aware of every out-of-place straw within eye-shot, lesbian, or no.
The stockgirl remained on the floor, continued the interregation. "I remembered you because I was surprised to have seen you in the store. I hadn't seen you in the store for over a year. You used to shop here with your girlfriend. I still see her, but . . . What happened?"
"We broke up. I live on the west side. I only came over here the other day because Bob wanted to try out some new chick hunting grounds."
"I'm sorry you two broke up. You made such an attractive couple."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Attractiveness does not the relationship make."
The lesbian didn't say anything.
Normally, I'd explain, here, how the old girl had wronged me, that I might get the new girl, here, feeling sorry for me. But the new girl, here, wasn't a girl exactly--studies show lesbians have male brains. I sure didn't want no male brain feeling sorry for me. I pulled my glove out of the chickpeas. "She and I just didn't click, so I threw in the towel." I threw my glove on the floor.
"So," the lesbian said, eyeing my glove on the floor, "she dumped you, huh?"
"I didn't say that."
"You deserved dumping. You, giving me the eye that day in aisle six."
I didn't say anything.
"What were you thinking; giving me the eye that day when you'd already made the perfect catch?"
This cleared things up for me. Here I'd thought the stockgirl had been giving me love-eyes that day in the freezer aisle. But the lesbian had been giving Rachel the love-eyes that pivotal day in aisle six.
"You men," the stockgirl said, standing. "You're all jerks." She raised her pencil as if to stab me in the chest.
"You got that right." I stuck out my chest. She didn't stab me, so I pulled in my chest. "No, really, on behalf of men everywhere, I want to apologize."
The lesbian lowered her pencil, looked me in the eye.
My cue to say something more. "At least I didn't make a move on you. See, I already pulled that boner once."
The stock girl looked me in the groin. "What boner exactly are we talking about?"
"Back in college, I got this crush on a girl, lost loads of sweat getting up the courage to ask her out. Finally, I asked her out. She even accepted. We went to the movies. Afterwards, while out for a beer, she explained that she liked me and all, but I needed to understand she was involved with somebody right then. Involved with another woman, turned out."
The stockgirl looked at me as if she didn't get my story.
"Huh," I added, "look at my face. I still get embarrassed thinking about it."
"At least you approached the girl and learned the truth. Better that than living your entire life regretting your lack of balls."
"I guess. But, see, it's a guy thing: We guys got it in our heads that real men don't play the fool."
"Being human is to play the fool. The real fool is he who believes he can steer clear of being human."
Hard to play any role when your face is the color of a fire engine. I reached down, grabbed my orange glove off the linoleum. No, real men everywhere, take a lesson: Always bring a glove along to the grocery store. Studies show it's often in a grocery store where a real man needs a fan.
****
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