“So you’re single?”
“Sure?” I was really confused. This woman, this 45-year-old woman wasn’t coming on to me, I was convinced of that. She always jokes a little. Older women always want me to meet their daughters, so it seemed in the norm, but still, a bit straightforward.
“Do you have a receipt for me, sweetheart?”
Nope. “Eee, sorry. I don’t have one on me, but I can bring one back on my next delivery.”
“Oh, heavens no!”
“I’m out anyway; it’s no deal at all.”
“And how would I know you’d come back to me?” A little strangely put, but no harm.
“Well …” I started before she interrupted me.
“You’d have to give me your name and home phone number and cell number.”
Strange. Very strange. She went back to make a copy of the receipt. I was close to uncomfortable at this point. I considered running out.
“What is your name, sweetheart? You do come here all the time.”
“Well you girls order from us all the time. I’m Adam … and are you Stacey?” Stacey was the woman whom I had spoke with on the phone when they ordered.
She gave me a look as if I had made some horrible mistake. She tugged on her shirt just a bit and looked down at her chest.
“Well you’re not wearing a name tag. How was I to know?” I really wanted to leave.
At this point she grabbed her shirt by a seam I previously didn’t know existed and ripped it open to reveal a name tag pinned to teal scrubs underneath. Monica.
“Monica, Monica …” I thought for a second. “You had the regular salad. Nothing changed about it.”
“Oh, I’m a regular girl. Not complicated at all.”
“Maybe just a little bit?”
I thought we were done. She still hadn’t returned my receipt yet, and things were feeling very awkward on my side of the counter.
She finally signed it, and looking up, gave me this gem, “I broke up with my boyfriend this weekend.”
“Oh yeah?” I said with a laugh. She seemed like every other inappropriately awkward older woman who thinks I’m cute, but now I realized she was serious. “Oh, you’re serious …”
I was a little scared to be truthful.
“Yeah … it’s over.”
“Huh. What did you do that for?”
“He went hunting.”
“Yeah, I hate hunters too.” I just wanted to leave.
“He’s so irresponsible. Not like you. Not like you at all.”
She went on, “He called in from work …”
“Well sure.” I really wanted that receipt.
“… to go hunting …”
“Did he shoot anything?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t think she liked me anymore. She exhaled loudly and returned to her seat across the desk. “Here you are.”
And there I was. She handed me the receipt, and I slowly backed away until I was out of sight, at which point I’d like to say I ran to my car and sped off, but really I just laughed.
I love the delivery business; you just never see it coming.