II
When I was young, I used to be in love. I used to spend days on mixed tapes, perfectly calculating the placement and selection of songs, know full well that she would only listen to is twice. I used to hurt for no reason other than her. We met at a thrift store. She was the quiet, green-haired Asian (I could easily see flecks of black fighting their way to the surface) huddled over the bargain bin. I was the rust-and-black haired emo kid in a hoodie twelve sizes too big and skinny jeans twelve sizes too small, sifting through bright colored apparel. Neither of us has paid the other much attention upon entering, just the poilite smiles shared that just as quickly faded, as customary to exchange.
I glanced up for a moment and saw it. Now, it is important to note that I have never been a very materialistic person, but once or twice in a person's life, they find that one article of clothing that absolutely screamed out to them, "Buy me. You wont regret it," It's happened to you, listener, and if you're thinking to yourself, "No, that's ridiculous," then you are either twelve and should not be listening to this, or are a liar. This particular article of clothing happened to be a pair of obnoxiously red skinny jeans. I glanced over to the only other customer in the small store; she had spotted them too. Later, I would feel a little self conscious at the fact that I had the same taste in jeans as a girl, but now, all that mattered was paying the $5.99 for those pants. She tried to inconspicuously make her way over the rack, but I was at least five steps ahead of her. I jumped over displays and racks (inevitably, knocking a few over) as she wove through them. When I was within 10 feet of it, I decided to take a leap, and dove for it. No pun intended. I was in grabbing distance of it when she swooped in from nowhere and nailed me in the stomach with her elbow. Needless to say, I didn't get those jeans. She glanced down at myself, who was currently displaying a great discomfort in the abdominal area, and offered a hand to help me up.
She introduced herself as Mizu... something. But names don't really matter. After both of my feet were planted firmly on the ground, I glanced over my shoulder to see a disgruntled store clerk making his way over. Apparently, a couple of teenagers turning the store into a mess didn't fly with him.
He said something of the nature of, "Get the hell out of my store," and "I sure hope you're paying for those," which I returned with, "Well, we can't buy it if you want us out,"
That didn't fly with him either. But, never to turn down a sale, he checked us out and ay.
I had to bite my lip the whole time I was in there, suppressing laughter brought on by the color of the clerks face. I glanced over to Mizu; she was experiencing it, too. After he had grudgingly bagged it for us, we breathed our "Thank you's," careful not to let even a snicker out, and sprinted our way to the door.
Where we then let loose what had been building up inside of us. Together, we relayed what happened back inside, fragmented in between gasps for air and hysterics, as if both of us hadn't just experienced it. Before we knew it, we were sitting against the side of a Kwik Trip, both with a Big Gulp in hand, sharing quirky anecdotes, twice-told stories, phone numbers. The works.
When I was young, I used to be in love. I used to spend days on mixed tapes, perfectly calculating the placement and selection of songs, know full well that she would only listen to is twice. I used to hurt for no reason other than her. We met at a thrift store. She was the quiet, green-haired Asian (I could easily see flecks of black fighting their way to the surface) huddled over the bargain bin. I was the rust-and-black haired emo kid in a hoodie twelve sizes too big and skinny jeans twelve sizes too small, sifting through bright colored apparel. Neither of us has paid the other much attention upon entering, just the poilite smiles shared that just as quickly faded, as customary to exchange.
I glanced up for a moment and saw it. Now, it is important to note that I have never been a very materialistic person, but once or twice in a person's life, they find that one article of clothing that absolutely screamed out to them, "Buy me. You wont regret it," It's happened to you, listener, and if you're thinking to yourself, "No, that's ridiculous," then you are either twelve and should not be listening to this, or are a liar. This particular article of clothing happened to be a pair of obnoxiously red skinny jeans. I glanced over to the only other customer in the small store; she had spotted them too. Later, I would feel a little self conscious at the fact that I had the same taste in jeans as a girl, but now, all that mattered was paying the $5.99 for those pants. She tried to inconspicuously make her way over the rack, but I was at least five steps ahead of her. I jumped over displays and racks (inevitably, knocking a few over) as she wove through them. When I was within 10 feet of it, I decided to take a leap, and dove for it. No pun intended. I was in grabbing distance of it when she swooped in from nowhere and nailed me in the stomach with her elbow. Needless to say, I didn't get those jeans. She glanced down at myself, who was currently displaying a great discomfort in the abdominal area, and offered a hand to help me up.
She introduced herself as Mizu... something. But names don't really matter. After both of my feet were planted firmly on the ground, I glanced over my shoulder to see a disgruntled store clerk making his way over. Apparently, a couple of teenagers turning the store into a mess didn't fly with him.
He said something of the nature of, "Get the hell out of my store," and "I sure hope you're paying for those," which I returned with, "Well, we can't buy it if you want us out,"
That didn't fly with him either. But, never to turn down a sale, he checked us out and ay.
I had to bite my lip the whole time I was in there, suppressing laughter brought on by the color of the clerks face. I glanced over to Mizu; she was experiencing it, too. After he had grudgingly bagged it for us, we breathed our "Thank you's," careful not to let even a snicker out, and sprinted our way to the door.
Where we then let loose what had been building up inside of us. Together, we relayed what happened back inside, fragmented in between gasps for air and hysterics, as if both of us hadn't just experienced it. Before we knew it, we were sitting against the side of a Kwik Trip, both with a Big Gulp in hand, sharing quirky anecdotes, twice-told stories, phone numbers. The works.
