Midnight Lunch: An Erotic Story about Microwave Omelets Read Free Page A

tension
lines into her shirt at their fullest.
    Her nipples are big and pointed slightly away
from each other. My body tears from interested to ravenously horny.
She’s walking toward me and I still haven’t thought of anything to
say. I’m thinking about jumping the counter and meeting her
halfway, my hands scooping inside her jacket, under the curve of
her breasts, so I can run my thumbs over both nipples when I kiss
her.
    My mind rolls over in its haze. I have to say
something. But even with my mouth closed, I imagine the way my eyes
follow her around the store is probably making the point for
me.
    She sets a pack of Juicyfruit on the
counter.
    I say, “How’s your night going?”
    She looks up at me, “Pretty good. You?”
    I shrug, like now I’m cool to the touch,
“Dunno. It’s just getting started.”
    She nods.
    My mind is reeling itself back together. I
come up with something better, “You working the night shift
too?”
    She says, “No. How much for the gum?”
    “Ninety-nine cents.”
    She puts a dollar bill on the counter and
walks away. The door swings shut behind her and I see my face in
the glass, apologizing.
    Is that a hard no? Or a soft no? Is that
‘don’t talk to me’ or ‘I hate small talk’? I brood myself into a
bad mood and scowl at people through the doors.
    —————
    I promise myself to leave her alone. She
no-shows the next day and I think, one more try. Last time. If she
comes around again, I’ll just try one more time and then I’ll let
it go.
    She comes in just before 2 am. I catch her
eye and nod. She smiles back. It’s small and polite but if I’m only
giving myself one more chance, it’s enough. I walk out from behind
the counter and scoop up a half-full box of chip bags from the
floor. Time to stock the shelves.
    I kneel in front of the chips and start
tucking loud, crinkly bags into the back of each row. I feel her
wandering around. I’m positive she’s watching me, but that could
just be my own hyper-awareness clouding my senses.
    She turns down my aisle and sidesteps along,
facing the candy bars. I can sense her behind me like static
electricity. Lust says, turn around and find out how good she
smells, but my mind, where I take myself and my limits seriously,
says, you have one chance. Don’t fuck it up. I let her pass, then
glance at her back as she walks away.
    My eyes return to the chip bags just as she
says, “I love your hair,” without turning around.
    I look up and she looks back. I hold her eyes
because the only time you can really hold someone’s gaze is the
pause before you speak. I say, “Thanks.” She smiles and disappears
around the end cap.
    I say, “I like yours too.”
    She leans back into view, “Thanks!”
    I stand up, trying to look casual, hoping I
don’t spook her, “How do you keep it so bright but still so soft?”
Most girls with bleached hair have brittle tips. Hers looks like
pulled cotton.
    She laughs, “Honey and egg yolks.”
    I smile and bite my lip, bolder now, “I’ll
give you a discount.”
    She takes a step closer. Her head tips just
enough to let me know she knows. We’re flirting. More accurately,
I’m flirting and she’s letting me. She crosses her arms, which
lifts her breasts. I hold her eyes, unblinking.
    “On what? Little squeeze jars of honey? I’d
go through one a day.”
    “I’ll sell you a case.”
    She just nods at me with her eyebrows raised.
I drop the cloak of flirting and ask an honest question. One chance
to show her I’m serious, to find out her name. I say, “So if you’re
not working, what are you doing up so late?”
    Her eyes are so dark I can’t tell if she’s
offended or interested. She looks back at me like she isn’t going
to respond, then says, “I am working. I’m a Minor Decoy.”
    I blink. I know the phrase, but it’s so far
from what I was expecting her to say that I can’t remember what it
means. Minor decoy, minor decoy… My mind snaps into focus. They
work for