Awkward Felt

Awkward Felt

I’m standing at the counter in front of my register and I make eye contact with her.

She’s standing in line by the felt ropes waiting for me to say something or nod her over, but I don’t.

I don’t believe in love at first sight, this is something more like lust at first sight.

In my head among multiple fantasies is the knowledge that none of them will happen because I would never ask.

Then, without me saying, “Next in line”, or “May I help you?”, she’s here.

I automatically take her membership card, scan her books, and hope my mouth isn’t hanging open letting all my feelings out.

I’m supposed to ask her if she found everything okay and offer her a promotion but I can’t or won’t.

She’s pleasant and smells like grass, but I can tell she knows how I feel so I curse myself for being so transparent.

I finish her transaction, hand her the receipt, and quickly motion for the next person in line, so I can end the pain.

I try not to notice when she uses my orange pen without asking and writes something on her receipt and leaves it behind.

Without reading the letters she wrote, I tuck it my shirt pocket obsessed with trying not to think about it.

When I read it after work, I want to kill myself in three hundred painful ways.

She wrote, “I felt it.”