I’m writing this in my head, standing in a very long line at Whole Foods, the Epcot of organic supermarkets.
There’s a guy in front of me who looks like a weight-lifter with arms the size of salamis, holding one item: a mango Chobani yogurt.
The woman in front of him has a good 50 things, yet won’t allow him to go ahead of her. This positively kills Pollyanna as she fumes on his behalf. The man, who looks as if he could take on Syria single-handedly, is smiling like he just won a car.
I finally say to Miss, I don’t give a shit, with her many parcels, “Couldn’t this gentleman go first since he only has one thing?”
He quickly says, “No, I’m good. Don’t mind waiting at all,” sidestepping the sneer the Upper East Side charmer gives us both.
However, when she turns all the way around I see she has cleavage three feet deep that he, being so tall, his salamis at attention, is enjoying like a mammary matinee.
He winks at me, showing dimples that made me, and Pollyanna blush, like a coupla schoolgirls.