Lori-Anne peaches

—“You are my second friend-contact at this store today,” I said to ****** at my supermarket’s self check-out.
“Number-one was ******, I said.
“******,” ****** said. “Your favorite Wegmans employee.”
“She is not!” I snapped.
“You know who my favorite employee is at this store?” I said.
“It’s you!” I said, pointing at her.
She blushed and bopped me.
Readers, I think she actually believed what I said.
“With you I’m at ease. I have to be careful with ****** lest I not be perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
****** looks young, like she’s probably not married yet.
My wife died over nine years ago, so now you stand in for her.
You’re someone I can talk to.
And you’ll notice I mentioned my wife’s passing without crying,” at which point I started crying as always.
I think ****** understood: “this guy really cared about his wife.”
“My wife was flat incredible,” I whimpered.
“44&1/2 years she put up with me, although her mother messed her up almost as bad as me.
So my wife could forgive my madness. Her mother was a pill.”
“Lori-Anne peaches?” I exclaimed.
“So take ‘em back,” ****** said.
“Are you sure?” I said.
****** canceled my Lori-Anne peaches.
“Too mushy!” I said.
“Sounds like you’re an authority on peaches,” ****** said.
No Lori-Anne peaches for this kid!

“The real thing”

—“I hafta say something,” I said to a lady with long flowing silver hair.
We were in my supermarket.
She turned toward me, our eyes met, and “the real thing,” I said, pointing to her hair.
Now what did I just do here, readers? (“Get ready with that there remote Luke!”)
I inferred she was attractive, that her hair attracted me.
And I didn't get smacked.
“Prematurely gray,” she said. “Started going gray in my 20s.”
Conversation started: Here we go!
“That means I may be older than you,” I said. “I’m 77.”
“Well I’m 61,” she said.
My aquacise-instructor came to mind. She’s also 61, but I think she dyes her hair.
“My baby-sister is going gray, and she treats that like a mantra.
“Going gray is the coming thing,” she says.
“And she doesn’t like ‘baby-sister’ either, but we’re 17 years apart. I’m first and she’s last. I brought her home from the hospital; my mother too.”
On and on we went: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
Everyone loves talking; especially women.
So say something to her: “he’s talking to me! Yippee!”
I hoped we’d meet again later. But we didn’t.
I woulda said “Boy am I glad I said something to you. I usually keep to myself.”
I bet she goes home and tells her husband.
(“Some aging geezer tried to get friendly with me!”)