by Liz McAdams
I’m watching, always watching. Crafty, that’s what I am. Pulling down the visor of my minivan, I slouch against the seat, like I’m nodding off in the big-box store parking lot. Dear old gramps, waiting for his wife and grandkids to finish shopping.
I lift my sunglasses up and stare at her, just to get a better look. Yep, she’s a hottie alright, walking around in shorty-shorts so damned tight you can see nearly ‘bout every pube going.
Or maybe she waxes down there. Keeps it fresh, so to speak.
Dunno, but I’ll find out later.
She parked pretty close to me, so’s to be easy pickings.
I already got the shopping cart on standby, propped up against my van, so when I see her coming, I can just step out and ask her to help me lift a package outta the back.
Got one of those big screen TVs to return, don’t know how to work the fool thing. Damned waste of money.
Then when she leans inside to help me pick up that empty cardboard box, filled with nothing but chloroform-soaked rags, I just give a little shove, and then bingo. Baby’s all mine.
And no big screen TV can beat that kind of entertainment.
As I see her walking toward her car, all kinds shopping nonsense in her arms, I open the door and step out, making sure I lean against the minivan a little, like I’m tired and worn out, and then wheel the shopping cart around to the back of the van.
Opening up the rear doors, I smile at her as she approaches, in that nice grandpa grin, and say, “’Scuse me, miss, would you mind helping an old man lift a package?”
Of course she would. Everybody likes shopping.
Liz McAdams is a short, sharp writer living in the wilds of Canada with her black cats and laptop. She adores themes of love, loss, and change — all with a twist of darkness.
Her work appears online in various forms, but most notably on Spelk, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle, and the new feminist lit mag Twisted Sister.