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September 16, 2004
"What do you think *you're* looking at?"
On my way to work, waiting in line for a smoothie at Jamba Juice.
There's a mom in her late thirties with an 11-year-old boy in tow. A beefy guy in his mid-twenties, shifting his weight from foot to foot to pass the time. Assorted young Black and Hispanic teens running the register, cleaning up and blending fruit, ice and juice in blenders that roar like 747s.
A Latina in her early twenties comes in wearing purple velour track pants slung low over her hips, a floppy purple hat, and a black mesh crop top over a purple tank top. She's heavily made up for 9:28 a.m., and the purple lotus tattoo over her iliac crest was only slightly more prominent than the fuchsia rhinestone thong riding above her waist.
I took her in, and went back to reading the news on my Treo. Looking at her was more than I felt like dealing with before breakfast.
If it was a comic strip, I'd have drawn dashed lines between the google eyes of the beefy guy and her ass.
Miss Thing made conversation with her friend running the register, who seemed to marvel at her, even though I could see her thinking, "I could never..."
The mother handed her son a Citrus Squeeze with an immunity boost, but the boy's eyes were elsewhere. She got his attention -- and that of every other male in the room -- when she jerked his arm and pulled him out the door, demanding, "What do you think you're looking at?"
Posted by Your Protagonist at September 16, 2004 10:23 AM