smoothies. Scrambling, I grab a few mangoes at a time and put them back on the pile, only to have them start toppling down like some sick game of mango Jenga. And to my utter embarrassment, they start falling down onto the ground around my feet. The worst part is that I’m still rambling on about the different varieties of smoothies I can make using mangoes as the main ingredient.
God, how suave can I be?
Cameron bends down to where I’m kneeling on the floor of the grocery store. He smells so good this close, like if I could bottle up the sun and spray it on myself, and something else . . . hmm, maybe vanilla? Whatever it is, it’s delicious. When he leans forward to help, his face is so close to mine, and I blurt out, “Did you know that your eyes are very dark, almost black like the night sky?”
Right then another mango falls on my head, keeping me from speaking out loud, which is probably a good thing if that last comment was any indication.
He tries to cover up his laughter and the ensuing awkwardness by saying, “Here, how about you pick them up and hand them to me, and then I’ll pile them back up?”
In short order, I hand him one mango at a time and he stacks them strategically so that it’s impossible for them to fall again. I stand and watch as he’s holding the last mango and mulling over the display.
“Look,” I say, pointing to what looks like an empty space on the top right of the display. “There’s a spot there on the top of the pile for that last one.”
“A pile is more like a heap, which sounds and looks mostly unorganized.” Cameron pauses and then places the final mango on the bottom left carefully. He steps back and inspects his work. “See, by placing it just at that exact spot, the weight distribution is slightly more even, which makes it less likely for the stack to fall, even if someone takes a mango from the bottom.”
I’m kind of speechless at his thought process and find myself staring at him in confusion. To most women, this process of his for stacking mangoes would be the signal to turn and run in the opposite direction. But for me, it’s the complete opposite, which is a problem since I should not be turned on by my daughter’s science teacher.
“I’m sorry,” he says self-consciously. “Sometimes the science part of me wins out.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. It’s fascinating that you were able to figure it out that way, because I do something similar.” I turn to look at the display, tilt my head a bit while examining them, and continue. “See, I’d look at this pile of mangoes and consider the color and blush of certain mangoes and think that was too much orange on the left side and too much red on the right. I’d rearrange them so that the colors bled more into each other, almost like creating a rainbow of mangoes. And then I’d have to apologize for letting the artist in me win out yet again.”
“Well then, looks like we both have an affliction.”
“Looks like it,” I say. “The only problem is that I actually need to buy a couple of these mangoes but don’t want to ruin your scientific masterpiece.”
Cameron takes a step closer, and this time I don’t make a complete ass of myself and say a thing about his black-as-night eyes. I inch over as he proceeds to carefully select two mangoes that are perfectly ripe without collapsing the display again. “Here, these two ought to work for your smoothie.”
I take them and put them in my cart. “Thank you . . . Cameron.”
“You’re welcome, Vanessa.”
With that, he tips his head and starts to walk away, as if he had a hat to bid me adieu, like an actor from a movie in the forties . . . or maybe I’m just imagining things where he’s concerned. But not even a few feet away from me, he stops pushing his cart, swings back around, and comes toward me again.
“This may seem very forward of me, and if it is, I apologize in advance. But there is a coffee shop around the corner, and I
God, how suave can I be?
Cameron bends down to where I’m kneeling on the floor of the grocery store. He smells so good this close, like if I could bottle up the sun and spray it on myself, and something else . . . hmm, maybe vanilla? Whatever it is, it’s delicious. When he leans forward to help, his face is so close to mine, and I blurt out, “Did you know that your eyes are very dark, almost black like the night sky?”
Right then another mango falls on my head, keeping me from speaking out loud, which is probably a good thing if that last comment was any indication.
He tries to cover up his laughter and the ensuing awkwardness by saying, “Here, how about you pick them up and hand them to me, and then I’ll pile them back up?”
In short order, I hand him one mango at a time and he stacks them strategically so that it’s impossible for them to fall again. I stand and watch as he’s holding the last mango and mulling over the display.
“Look,” I say, pointing to what looks like an empty space on the top right of the display. “There’s a spot there on the top of the pile for that last one.”
“A pile is more like a heap, which sounds and looks mostly unorganized.” Cameron pauses and then places the final mango on the bottom left carefully. He steps back and inspects his work. “See, by placing it just at that exact spot, the weight distribution is slightly more even, which makes it less likely for the stack to fall, even if someone takes a mango from the bottom.”
I’m kind of speechless at his thought process and find myself staring at him in confusion. To most women, this process of his for stacking mangoes would be the signal to turn and run in the opposite direction. But for me, it’s the complete opposite, which is a problem since I should not be turned on by my daughter’s science teacher.
“I’m sorry,” he says self-consciously. “Sometimes the science part of me wins out.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. It’s fascinating that you were able to figure it out that way, because I do something similar.” I turn to look at the display, tilt my head a bit while examining them, and continue. “See, I’d look at this pile of mangoes and consider the color and blush of certain mangoes and think that was too much orange on the left side and too much red on the right. I’d rearrange them so that the colors bled more into each other, almost like creating a rainbow of mangoes. And then I’d have to apologize for letting the artist in me win out yet again.”
“Well then, looks like we both have an affliction.”
“Looks like it,” I say. “The only problem is that I actually need to buy a couple of these mangoes but don’t want to ruin your scientific masterpiece.”
Cameron takes a step closer, and this time I don’t make a complete ass of myself and say a thing about his black-as-night eyes. I inch over as he proceeds to carefully select two mangoes that are perfectly ripe without collapsing the display again. “Here, these two ought to work for your smoothie.”
I take them and put them in my cart. “Thank you . . . Cameron.”
“You’re welcome, Vanessa.”
With that, he tips his head and starts to walk away, as if he had a hat to bid me adieu, like an actor from a movie in the forties . . . or maybe I’m just imagining things where he’s concerned. But not even a few feet away from me, he stops pushing his cart, swings back around, and comes toward me again.
“This may seem very forward of me, and if it is, I apologize in advance. But there is a coffee shop around the corner, and I
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