I turned
back to end this conversation. “Listen, Chewie—”
“Albert. My
name is Albert.” He leaned closer and he wrinkled his forehead in such a way
that made it obvious he was fishing for my name. He can keep on fishing because
that was on a need-to-know basis. My mother always said, “Evaleen Bechmann, you
are being paranoid,” but in the age of the Internet, giving him my name could
be as powerful as giving him a knife.
In a way, I
felt bad for Chewie-Albert. The poor guy obviously never learned how to deal
with a woman. He believed groping me and refusing to take the hint that I
didn’t want to go out with him was normal. And that’s just sad he’s so
oblivious.
“Okay,
Albert. You seem like a nice, if not, handsy Star Wars . . . purist. You got a
killer costume that any other Star Wars purist of the female species would
love—”
“I hear
ya.” He winked, nodding as his eyes perused my form.
Sighing, I
realized in that moment the Wookie wasn’t getting it. I shouldn’t be surprised,
every man I had met hadn’t gotten it. They touched and they took, but they
didn’t understand. That’s why I avoided them. Preferring to remain alone.
“I am not
that female, Albert. I am the type of female who chooses to not dress in fur
costumes, or skimpy princess costumes, or costumes in general. This female just
likes to stand in a line and be left alone. So, good luck finding your princess,
but I am as far from a princess as you will find around here.”
His shining
brown eyes dimmed as my words began to sink in. Before he could get any more
Wookie courage, I turned back to find the blonde still at the counter.
Normally, I
left people alone because, unlike Albert, I respected their space. But
surviving on only three hours of sleep before an interview for a job that I
needed, action was necessary.
Taking a
step forward, I tapped the blonde on her bulbous shoulder and took a breath.
“Excuse me, Miss, but I believe it has been ten minutes, which is plenty of
time to order your drink. Some of us don’t have the luxury of time, and were
kept up by our roommate doing gymnastics in bed with her boyfriend until four
in the morning.” I gritted my teeth and shook my head trying to get back on
point. “So, if you wouldn’t mind placing your order and letting the rest of us
have a turn . . .”
Just as I
finished, the woman turned to face me.
She had a
beard. Also, an Adam’s apple.
The woman
wasn’t a she but a he. He had a beard, lush and blond like his long hair, not
fake and matted like Albert’s costume. His eyes were the most beautiful gray,
like smoke rising from a smoldering fire. They slid over my face.
I shivered.
“Miss?” His
deep, velvety tone came out thick as butter and rendered me utterly catatonic.
The timbre of his voice like a sonic boom under my skin. His skin, on the other
hand, remained still, smooth, and my fingers, for reasons I am attributing to
lack of sleep, twitched to touch any part of him.
His eyes
widened at what I could only assume was disbelief. Disbelief that a woman of
twenty-six years would be referring to a fine specimen of a man, a manly man if
you will, as a woman. Despite his thick blond mane and skirted attire, he was
all muscle.
I realized
this man was in costume too, like Chewie. Only this man was dressed like the
Scottish hero William Wallace and not a sweaty sci-fi version of Sasquatch. He
even painted his face blue and white.
One would
think that a tall man with thick muscles and a wild painted face would instill
fear in me, but no. Instead of running in terror, I did the opposite. I laid my
hands on him. My fingers caressed his chest working their way down. Doing the
exact thing I just lectured Albert not to do. I should have probably stopped.
But I
didn’t.
Never in my
life had I taken advantage of anyone in this manner but he gave off some
pheromone that screamed sex me with your hands. Sensing quickly how firm his
chest was it propelled me farther down, down to his abs. The man had a six-pack
or maybe even an eight-pack; whatever pack was hiding under that brown
threadbare piece of cashmere was making my heart race and lady parts start to
turn savage themselves.
“What are
you doing?”
He was
still there and I was still in the coffee shop. This wasn’t a dream. The kilted
blond’s voice broke me out of my self-gratifying pawing and I realized I was
feeling him up, or down as the case may be.
What are you doing, Evaleen?
I froze
before snapping my hands away. I began to smooth out my unwrinkled brown blazer
as if I wasn’t a chest molester and nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
Clearing my throat, I tried to salvage what little dignity I had left.
“I . . . I
. . .” Was all I could get out before I turned to look at the raven-haired
barista who either had a rare eye condition that caused her to shoot fire at
anyone she laid eyes upon, or she hated me right now. I was going with the
latter, so I turned my gaze to the line of customers who had their phones
turned up to face me as they filmed what had been occurring. Including Albert.
Great, not
only am I mortified, but I will now be some viral Internet sensation known only
as, The Woman Chest Molester.
Now it was
the kilter’s turn to tap his foot as he folded his thick, strong arms in front
of himself in protection from the mad chest molester. He’ll probably tell tales
to his future kids and grandkids of the crazy chest molester. “Be wary of her,”
he’d say in a low warning with his dialect suddenly turning from American to
Scottish. After all, he was dressed as William Wallace.
As he crept down to their eye level, and as
the window panes would rattle from the storm that swirled outside his Scottish
castle, he would whisper, “For if wee girls and boys don’t do as they’re told,
the wiry fingers of the deranged chest molester will grab hold!” The kids would
cower, holding their blankets to their little faces; one girl would begin to
cry as he wrapped his powerful arms gently around her tiny frame in comfort.
He’d calm her as he broke out into an old Gaelic tune.
I start
humming out loud the only Gaelic tune I know, which wasn’t really a Gaelic tune
but it’s Scottish, so close enough.
The barista
interrupted my musical display, “Is that ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles’?”
I frowned
in shame at what I had become in these past few minutes.
“Blue
eyes,” the kilted blond mumbled as he stared at me.
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