Availability

I applied to volunteer at the thrift store, because of the girl working there that day. She was a fine specimen. A little padded, but, definitely not sheltered; she had a mouth on her that would put a trucker to shame. How she managed to keep her position in the store was beyond me – well, free service aside, and all. She wasn't an entirely vulgar person; she was charming, in a strange way. Her short, spiky hair amused me. I imagined that not long ago, not too far away, she probably had had long hair, and a sweet smile. These days, she was giving the exuberant mouthy persona her all. I'd seen her around town, but had only just recently found her here. I knew right there that I had to find my way in to her circle of chums. Or more; whatever came up.

When she told me her name, Kimberlyn, I thought she'd said Kimberly. I held the application out to her, and said, "Kimberly: I hope that one day we'll have parallel shifts."

"Kimberlyn," she corrected. "Are you hitting on me?"

I smiled, unsure of my own intentions suddenly. "Nah. I'm married. Can't do that, you know."

"I wouldn't be so sure," she mused, tipping her head to the side to point out a gentleman perusing the trench coats. "That fucking shithead back there hasn't taken a hint, excuses and logic aren't his deal."

I shrugged, exaggerating a frown. "That's not my deal at all," I assured her.

"Yeah, well, remember, if Rosalie takes you on, stay the fuck away from the girls here. We're all spoken for. We get a lot of you lookie-loo losers coming in here, trying to impress us with your 'charitable notions', and your guilt-ridden need for salvation in volunteering –"

"Is this how you greet all the guys who try volunteering here?" I interrupted. "I can see why there's only chicks working here, if you're the one we all encounter first."

She pegged me with a withering look. "If you're gunna get scared off because some chick doesn't want your dick in her way, don't blame me."

Fleetwood Mac advised me not to stop.. but never on this front. "I hate this goddamn 80s bullshit," Kimberlyn complained. "It's all this happy-sappy crap about 'feel better', 'be yourself'. No wonder people are so self-absorbed. Jesus-fucking-Christ."

I stepped back a little, rocking on my heels. My arms crossed; I felt a little peeved. Being an 80s veteran, I kind of felt like she was taking another jab at me. I guess therein lies the curse of talking to younger girls. My eyes wandered around the shelf above her head, stuffies and porcelain cats grinned at me knowingly.

"Well, ah, I think I will get going. Be sure to get –"

"Rosalie."

"—To gimme a call, either way. So, ah, have yourself a nice day, Kim."

"Kimberlyn," she corrected again, crossing her own arms, and frowning with disapproval.

With that, I hit the streets. I wandered downtown for a while. Things with Iris, my wife, had been a little quiet lately. Our sex-life had stagnated a few years back. I hadn't acted upon my remaining urges – keeping to myself in the computer room with a few tasteless pornos had kept most of me at bay. But then, on a day like today, when I attempted to get close to a girl – for undetermined reasons – I worried about my grip on fidelity. Was I cheating on my wife, with my unbidden stray thoughts of other women's bodies? Or was this better, seeking out girls to get close to? Worse? I couldn't tell. I won't say that my intentions were pure – I hold out hope that I can refrain from delving in to my carnal appetite. All the while, I flirt with danger; I flirt with the notion of finding a young girl who will find me irresistible – ahh, but can I resist, when I finally find one? It's all a game of denial and delusional wishful thinking.

Iris was a great wife, sexual absence aside. She was a traditional kind of lady, coming from a very German background. I worked, she stayed home. We're childless, but, verging on our 50s, it seems a bit late to get in to. We chose to have a childless marriage. I don’t regret it, so much as I wonder about the alternative sometimes. Iris would no doubt have a meal waiting for me. I dawdled, nonetheless. I fantasized vaguely of Potatoes Romanov, her latest crave. Filling, fattening, but very rewarding to come home to.

Today was a slow day at work. I get paid to wander around grocery stores, spying and detaining would-be shoplifters. There was one gal, a porky broad with light fingers, who almost fooled me today. I saw one thing go in to her coat; I missed the other 6 things. Confronting her was easy. She was wary of me, but nabbed something just as I was coming around the corner. She relinquished the goods easily enough. Again, I was surprised that she bypassed my attention, and had nigh wandered off with a few pricey items. She seemed decent enough about it; I guess being caught because someone spotted you stuffing tampons down your coat seemed embarrassing enough. At least the other 6 things were interesting enough that she seemed a little more at ease revealing them. We had a cop come in to take her away. I doubt that she'll get charged much; she looked like she was still in high school.

I wandered to my car, still lost in a bit of mental fog. Someone had keyed, "Faggotbuncher" in to my driver's door. The other side was graced with, "Pedobear Approves!" Ah. Fun. Now I need to go to the repair shop soon, too.

I thought again of Kimberlyn, thinking distantly about going back, and trying to get her on my side. The thought of the potatoes overcame that desire.

Oh well.