The Key Party

Shopping for Candy

The morning flew by, as did my shift at the local vinyl store and the existence of my coffee (which I seemed to have subconsciously chugged). Only one or two customers stopped by, shopping for collector's editions that can only appear in museums.

But now, I'm at the local department store shopping for Candy's party. I glance at my phone to check the list she sent me, pushing the wobbly cart around, inwardly cringing as it squeaks every push I give it.

I turn around the corner to the cutlery/serving aisle, going to get the punch bowl for whatever she needed it for. I can't imagine having a punch bowl at a bar, so why does she need it?

And just my short ass's luck: It's on the very top shelf. I groan audibly, and glance down the aisle to make sure nobody is watching. Then, much like I used to as a child, I stick my foot on one of the shelves and begin to climb slowly to reach the bowls.

"What are you doing?" I hear a male voice behind me ask. If my first instinct wasn't to freeze when caught, I'd have pulled this shelf down with me on accident and inevitably crushed my small frame.

"Uh... Getting a punch bowl," I answer, still clinging to the shelf, mid-reach of the bowls.

"Alright, Tarzan. Let me help before you get in trouble, then," the voice says. I break my statuesque position and slowly climb back down, fixing my shirt. I lift my eyes to the tall man who easily reaches for the bowls and pulls down a stack.

"How many do you need?" he asks me, and I finally get a good look of his face as he returns my gaze.

Dirty blond, layered hair, neatly combed back. Mismatched eyes in color—his right eye is blue and his left seems more brown. Thin lips, soft smile. He's wearing a genuine leather jacket with a navy blue undershirt and minimally ripped jeans.

Grateful for my quick intake of someone's appearance, it was only two seconds of silence before I respond. "Just one. Thanks."

"No problem," he says, handing me one of the bowls and placing the stack of them back. He starts walking away and grabbing a couple cooking utensils before rounding the corner from where I came.

I shrug off the awkward and embarrassing encounter with the stranger and continue my shopping spree for Candy.

After the hunt for table cloths, vases, solo cups and paper plates is over, I head over to the checkout, grabbing a fancy restaurant gift card for my gift to Candy and Bobby—Benny, I mean. Gosh, why'd she have to find a guy with such a simple name that's easy to forget?

I begin loading the supplies onto the checkout conveyor belt, noticing a familiar pair of jeans out of my peripheral. I take a minute glance at the man there, confirming that he was indeed the man that helped me retrieve the bowl. But I dare not to start small talk—not socially eloquent enough for that.

"Getting ready for a gathering?"

I lift my eye to the man who spoke, and smile in response, immediately shy. "Uh... yeah."

He nods, and I realize my blunt answer must've set him up for small talk failure, which is even worse than actually engaging in awkward small talk. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat and continue to talk to him. "It's for a friend. She's throwing a party."

"Ah," he hums softly. If my hearing sense wasn't so acute, I probably wouldn't have picked up on how husky his voice can be. Not saying I'm attracted to him or that his voice makes my stomach erupt in butterflies... but I couldn't help but notice it's soft husky tone.

"Yeah. She asked me to get these for her to help decorate later, and set up a food-and-drink bar, I think..." I trail off, realizing how little I actually know about this party of hers.

"Sounds like it'll be a wild night, then?" he asks me.

"Oh yeah. Not for me, though, no. I don't drink myself to oblivion, unlike the rest of her lot of friends. But, if I didn't go out at all, I would become a very, very awkward anti-socialite to society," I murmur, noticing how I am teetering toward sounding absolutely insane.

Thankfully, the man chuckles in his husky way, and smiles at something on the floor. That, or smiling at my statement and not wanting to come off as overly-friendly. Or I should just stop overthinking about the fact that I made him laugh.

"I couldn't relate more to anything than to what you just said," he says, glancing between me and the checkout conveyor belt.

The cashier totals up my items, and I quickly pay and check out. Before taking off, I tell the man goodbye, and begin to calmly book it like a bat out of hell. I succeed in leaving the store without any embarrassing trips or stumbles, and hastily load my bags into my car.

I hop in soon after and start the ignition, plugging into my GPS the address to House of Reds. As I begin my drive, my mind subconsciously wanders back to the already fading memory of the stranger's face and voice.

Surprisingly, he made social interaction less awkward than I always fear it to be. If only everyone was as relaxed as he was.

I pull out of the parking lot, taking a reflexive glance back to the store's entrance. The stranger who helped me just starts to exit, and his eyes travel across the lot, landing on my car. He must recognize me, because he gives a minute smile and waves goodbye. I wave back before finally driving away.

"Not bad for a quick shopping trip, Jen," I tell myself. "Not bad."