“It’s because you’re so damned hairy,” he announced right there at the front of the store.
“Um-hmm.” The utterance of the woman next in line was likely unrelated.
“I’m cold,” I whined.
The store had the AC blasting in October.
“You’re hot as f**k,” Casey said.
“Um-hmm.”
I didn’t turn around to see, but my hope, as Casey pet me chin to crotch in front of the kid, three other clerks, and a dozen customers including Ms. Um-hmm was that she was on the phone.
“I’m gonna shave it all off.”
“Razors on aisle five,” the cashier said.
“Don’t you f*****g dare.” Casey glared at him.
“Let’s just hurry up.” I’d been cranky all day. “It’s warmer outside.”
We filled two bags with chocolate, Slim Jims, Neccos, gum, Skittles, and raisins—I liked raisins—and, of course, Cheetos. Munchies in hand,
