I guarantee this guy got every woman he ever wanted.
But that was his business.
I had a forgotten-wallet situation to deal with. And a last-minute party to host.
“It’s fine,” I said, waving my hands at him and rejecting his offer to pay for my stuff.
“I don’t mind,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his jeans.
“I don’t need your help,” I said, and it came out a little harsher-sounding than I meant.
He looked from me—purseless—to the counter of stuff I had yet to pay for. “I think maybe you do.”
But I wasn’t having it. “I can just run home for my purse,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
“But you don’t have to.”
“But I want to.”
What part of I don’t need your help did this guy not understand?
“I appreciate the gesture, sir,” I said then. “But I’m fine.”
“Why are you calling me sir? We’re, like, the same age.”
“Sir is not an age thing.”
“It absolutely is. Sir is for old men. And butlers.”
“Sir is also for strangers.”
“But we’re not strangers.”
“Gotta disagree with you there, sir.”
“But I’m rescuing you,” he said, like that made us friends.
I wrinkled my nose. “I prefer to rescue myself.”
For the record, I recognized that he was trying to do something nice. I also recognized that most of humanity would’ve let him do it, thanked him gratefully, and called it a day. This is the kind of moment that could wind up on the internet, getting passed around with captions like See? People aren’t so terrible after all!
But I wasn’t like most of humanity. I didn’t like being helped. Is that a crime?
Surely I’m not the only person on this planet who prefers to handle things on her own.
It wasn’t him I was opposed to. He was appealing. Strongly, viscerally appealing.
But the helping—including his pushiness about it—was not.
We stared at each other for a second—at an impasse. And then, for no reason, he said, “That’s a great dress, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I said suspiciously, like he might be using a compliment to lower my defenses. Then without really meaning to, I said, “It was my mother’s.”
“And you do a great Smokey Robinson, by the way.”
Oh god. He’d heard me. I lowered my eyes to half-mast, displeased. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he said.
“That sounded sarcastic.”
“No, it was great. It was … mesmerizing.”
“You were watching me?”
But he shook his head. “I was just shopping for cereal. You were the one doing a cabaret show in a grocery aisle.”
“I thought the store was empty.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t.”
“You should have stopped me.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely befuddled. Then, at the memory, something like tenderness lit his expression. He gave a little shrug. “You were a joy.”
I had no idea what to make of this guy.
Was he being sarcastic or serious? Was he handsome or generic? Was he kind to help or too pushy? Was he flirting with me or being a pain? Had he already won me over, or did I still have a choice?
Finally I circled back to: “Fine. Just … don’t help me.”
His expression shifted to wry. “I’m getting the sense that you don’t want me to help you.”
But I played it straight. “That’s correct.”
Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counter—still chatting away with her friend—and stage-whispered, “I’ll be back in five with my purse.”
Then I zipped out the door.
Case closed.
* * *
I WAS WAITING at the crosswalk for the light to change when I turned back to see the grocery store guy walking out with a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it might have three very cheap wine bottles and some dog tacos in it.
I stared at him until he saw me.
Then he gave me a big unapologetic ya got me smile.
Fine. I had my answers: Yes.
When he arrived next to me to wait for the same crosswalk, I kept my gaze straight ahead, but said, like we were spies or something, “Is that bag full of what I think it’s full of?”
He didn’t turn my way, either. “Do you think it’s full of human kindness?”