He was a stresser because his hair was gray and his skin was moist--like a newt or toad or: he was a cashier because he needed money. Money doesn't grow on trees--he knew that: that was why he was a stresser--slightly rude and a little discombobulated as to how he carried the product over the proloctor. It dictated the price, and if you had a Von's card it didn't have to be what it said. It could be cheaper.
His hair was white and and gray: his skin was as milk chocolate as it could be without it being sexual. His eyes were fierce and saw right through everything haulting and calming and relaxing. His eyes were heavy metal and I forgot the name off his nametag.
But he tried to read my last name off the receipt and failed.
I once wondered how people with theoretically shitty jobs rationalized their existence, except it was a little guykid training to be a bus driver from his brother in Egypt. Then I told myself that everything was necessary--a great cosmic gestalt phenomena. But the realest thing in this life to me is the cosmoshrug--straight up skeptic rhetort of all of life's precious ethereals.

Fucking---realtalk. Realtalk.

There was a good looking woman at Circuit City--she glanced at me in a way where I think she is looking at me, but we know how those types of pretenses go, sometimes. But maybe, audience, give me a maybe and I'll tell you more about this lady.
Her hair was permed a little--brunette. Her eyes were precious: her face adorned them and I liked sneaking glances at them, but when I saw her stand a little too comfortably next to the Asian guy in the blue shirt, I knew that some reality snuck its way into my peering--the maybe's probability shrunk exponentially and I am left writing about her.
I called her a woman because she was probably a twenty something. Now, I have a friend who is talking very closely to a twenty something, so it isn't impossible. It isn't impossible at all.
Just didn't happen--I blame it on the deity of your choosing.