![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In the midst of rushing about, tearing the guts and heads from innocent fish, serving customers, and idly wishing that I could reverse those two things, my coworkers and I actually manage to have a great deal of fun.
One of my dearest friends is uninterested in either courting or being courted. She says, however, that although one can do quite easily without sex, one cannot live without romance. In recent weeks I've been shocked and distressed to discover that I quite agree with her. I would like, therefor, to tell you about a few of my recent little romances.
Ed is a charming young man, well spoken, well dressed, and almost too tall. He sells flowers at the shop where I cut fish. He saw me buying his purple cala lilies some time ago, and we chatted, I confiding that I'm made quite stupid by any purple plant, and that cala lilies are my favourite flower. On Valentine's day, in the midst of his pained struggles to provide all the desperate and unprepared men in Philadelphia with fitting oblations, he hid for me a gift of a dozen purple roses. A tricksy customer found them and purchased them before he could stop them. I might prefer my unwilting and eternal stolen flowers more than I could a real bunch. Thank you, Ed.
Brigit, an adorable young thing who is quite wisely exceptionally fond of a certain knitted yellow hat, recently told me that every time she hears a Britney Spears song she thinks of me. I couldn't possibly feel happier, or more gay. The feeling is, in fact, mutual. I look forward to many dance parties amongst the pyramids of pears and oranges to come.
Elias, one of the butchers, and I are engaged in a passionate imaginary affair. He calls me his boo, among my favourite terms of endearment, in his unrepentant Puerto Rican accent. We reach for one another, pretending to weep, as we stand too far away from one another at our respective counters. We call one another's names. Recently, finding him there as I emerged from our shared industrial freezer, I clutched the five pound bag of minced wild caught salmon meat I carried to my chest, explaining, "Elias! This bag of salmon burger meat is like my heart when I'm away from you: both pulverised and frozen." He bit his lip, too moved to speak.
One of my dearest friends is uninterested in either courting or being courted. She says, however, that although one can do quite easily without sex, one cannot live without romance. In recent weeks I've been shocked and distressed to discover that I quite agree with her. I would like, therefor, to tell you about a few of my recent little romances.
Ed is a charming young man, well spoken, well dressed, and almost too tall. He sells flowers at the shop where I cut fish. He saw me buying his purple cala lilies some time ago, and we chatted, I confiding that I'm made quite stupid by any purple plant, and that cala lilies are my favourite flower. On Valentine's day, in the midst of his pained struggles to provide all the desperate and unprepared men in Philadelphia with fitting oblations, he hid for me a gift of a dozen purple roses. A tricksy customer found them and purchased them before he could stop them. I might prefer my unwilting and eternal stolen flowers more than I could a real bunch. Thank you, Ed.
Brigit, an adorable young thing who is quite wisely exceptionally fond of a certain knitted yellow hat, recently told me that every time she hears a Britney Spears song she thinks of me. I couldn't possibly feel happier, or more gay. The feeling is, in fact, mutual. I look forward to many dance parties amongst the pyramids of pears and oranges to come.
Elias, one of the butchers, and I are engaged in a passionate imaginary affair. He calls me his boo, among my favourite terms of endearment, in his unrepentant Puerto Rican accent. We reach for one another, pretending to weep, as we stand too far away from one another at our respective counters. We call one another's names. Recently, finding him there as I emerged from our shared industrial freezer, I clutched the five pound bag of minced wild caught salmon meat I carried to my chest, explaining, "Elias! This bag of salmon burger meat is like my heart when I'm away from you: both pulverised and frozen." He bit his lip, too moved to speak.
