Brown chicken, brown cow.

A FB friend posted that she wanted her friends to respond in the comments telling how they met her, but to lie.  This is what I sent back:

I never thought I would be writing this comment. I can’t believe it really happened to me.

Our eyes met across a crowded mini-mart, and, instantly, there were sparks. I pushed three middle-school wanna-gangers with Butterfingers and caffeinated chocolate out of my way, because I had to meet you. Had to know you. Had to wrap my life around you and bend you to my will.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice cracking half-way through gave away how excited I really was. “Hey, yourself,” you said, coyly. “Is that an extra-large Cocktail Pep stick in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” I wondered if you’d been watching me try to shoplift the meat snack, or how you knew that the real answer was “Both.”

. . .

As we pulled the remains of our clothing from the odd recesses of the dumpster, got dressed as we could, and prepared to walk back out into a world that suddenly felt both comfortably new and disturbingly familiar, I tried to find my capacity for speech. “That good! You pretty! Do that again many times!” Sadly, I found just enough to sound like a complete idiot.

You looked at me with that sad, sad look in your eyes. “It would never work. I could never give my life over to someone who shoplifts meat snacks and talks like a Neanderthal with a speech impediment.” I tried to argue, but it just came out as babbling incoherence. “No,” you said, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. We had three magical minutes there, and that’s all that this can ever be. Perhaps, someday, we can meet again on Facebook and be vaguely pleasant acquaintances.”

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