umbrella
Stop and Shop was packed. And I don’t mean “can’t get down the chicken aisle” sort of packed. I mean the type of packed that squeezes your arms so close to your body that you feel as if they’re digging into your insides. I left the store an hour late, barely managing to grab a container of mozzarella cheese. There was supposed to be a huge hurricane, so I guess everyone decided to shop a week early, resulting in a stampede of people rushing to grab the last Hamburger Helper.
A woman, probably a soccer mom named Dianne, jabbed me in the ribs as we both reached for the salt, resulting in a slur of creative curse words and a mean kick to the shins from a seething me. She threatened to tell the managers, but then refrained when I gave her my Snix-glare. I smirked as she strutted away, leaving me with my salt and a glorious victory.
So, today wasn’t the greatest. Not to mention the rain- a heavy downpour, just like the extremely attractive weather woman predicted. I really should’ve paid more attention, but with her boobs in my face and all, I sort of just drooled. But now, standing outside of my car with ten shopping bags in my hands, soaked from head to toe (and not the good kind of soaked, either, if you know what I mean) I instantly regret it. Sighing, I open my trunk and start to pack my ridiculous amount of food items. Curse that goddamn Thanksgiving dinner; I’d rather choke on my own vomit than cater for my entire family.
Out of my peripheral vision, I can see a flash of bright yellow amidst the rain. I turn my head to see a tall blonde, with legs that goes on for miles. She seems lost in her own world, humming a song that I don’t quite recognize, her head raised to the sky as she sticks her tongue out to collect drops of rain. I watch for a moment or two, mesmerized, as she giggles to herself and continues to walk. Her raincoat, I realize, was the flash of yellow I saw before, and it has ducks on it. Cartoon ducks, I shit you not.
I try to avoid her noticing me, because I must look pathetic. My hair is so wet it’s sticking to the side of my face- I feel like complete crap. I turn my head away from her and keep my eyes forward, throwing the last bag of food into my car. I smile to myself, and, just to celebrate the fact that I finished family dinner disaster shopping, I do a karate kick into the air.
“Are you trained in karate?”
I spin around to see the blonde girl with the legs and the duck coat. She smiles, her eyes wide like a child’s. I furrow my eyebrows and shake my head, blushing because dammit I just got caught doing that and fuck why did I even do that in the first place.
“No,” I reply. “Aren’t you too old to be asking stupid questions?”
She frowns for a split second, but then her smile returns, like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. “No. I’m twenty-six!”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “And?”
“So, I’m old enough to talk to pretty girls. And I think you’re really, really pretty.”
I frown, even though I’m dying on the inside because her eyes aren’t leaving mine and she’s the pretty one. Her lips are thin, but I’m mesmerized as she licks them and pulls them into her mouth. Even though it’s raining, her umbrella kept her relatively dry, and her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say, and I manage a small smile. “Sorry I’m acting like such a bitch. I think you’re really pretty, too.”
She smiles brightly again, and her eyes linger on the way I’m clutching against the handle of my trunk.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Santana,” I say. “What’s yours?”
“Brittany!”
We stand there without saying anything for a moment, and for some reason I can’t find it in myself to care that I’m absolutely drenched.
“Can I have your number?” she asks, and I blanche.
“You’re asking a complete stranger for their number, you know that, right? That i’m a complete stranger?”
She quirks an eyebrow. “We’re not strangers anymore, silly. I know your name.”
I laugh, despite the tremor in my heart. “Yeah, I guess you're right. And for some reason, I’m going to give it to you. But you better not be a serial killer or something.”
The girl- Brittany- giggles and hands me her phone. Her lockscreen is this really fat cat, and when I throw her a questioning glance, she shrugs.
“That’s Lord Tubbington,” she says. “He’s sort of addicted to cigarettes right now but we’ve been trying to kick his habit.”
She’s strange, definitely strange, but the way she looks at me makes me swoon just a tiny bit. As I finish typing in my number and hand her back her phone, our hands graze, and I discover her skin is really soft.
“I’m gonna go now, but text me, okay?” I say, and she nods her head.
“I will. Bye, Santana,” she says, giving me a cute little wave, which I return despite myself.
“Bye, Brittany.”