I was carrying diapers when it happened. Luvs, actually.
The beauty of having a small dog is his craps are rarely bigger than baby organic carrots. So I can encourage him to crap on the floor of my apartment. “Go on the papers. Go on the papers. That’s my good sweet bean.” Okay, not on the wooden floors themselves, but on a wee wee pad placed on the floor.
At 9:30pm, the pet stores were closed, and I was in a panic. The last of the wee wee pads was tossed; Linus had nowhere appropriate to “make.”
make: I love this word. “Can you please pull over; I have to make.” “Make what?” “You know, make.” I also love saying, “Baby, let’s go make it.” It’s so retro; it’s like a full-grown bush.
Of course I can take The Lineman outside for a sprinkle here and there, but I don’t do it consistently: work keeps me late. wine keeps me flirty for too long. winter keeps me inside and lazy. I was in a stitch. A stitch summoned me to the grocery store in search of wee wee pads.
Grocery stores are always cold; I hate the freezer isle, despite the ice cream. I’m in sweats and a wifebeater looking I-really-don’t-care-how-I-look-but-I-look-hot-in-this-don’t-I. My nipples are erect. I’m clutching rawhide and a thick plastic sack of diapers because wee wee pads are not sold in grocery stores. Then it happens. Hot grocery store man catches my eye across the isle. Our eyes lock, and we both look too long for it to be an accident. Then I look down. He looks down. I was suddenly 14 years old, carrying tampons, or worse, some sort of maxi pad box.
I’m carrying diapers. My Luvs bolted for the door.