The woman wearing very little strutted across the parking lot, and the stupid man walked into a closed door.
The door belonged to a charmingly inconvenient boutique located in a rather busy corner of a fictional town I've made up just now, the sort of place with people to eat, things to regret, and, I suppose, whatever else one might think to bother with in an otherwise unimportant backdrop. The man, meanwhile, belonged to - and was wanted by - nobody in particular, which, coincidentally, was the reason he was here in the first place.
"Sir?" a voice asked.
The stupid man looked up to find a strikingly acceptable young lady standing there in the doorway, looking at him in that way that seductively whispered, I wonder if he'll spend any money here. "Women," he concussed, attempting to remember at least one or two other words, and then forgetting to bother at all.
"Sir," the young lady replied, "Far be it from me to question any man's right to drink himself stupid in the middle of the day, but if you're going to do that sort of thing, I suggest you do so somewhere more appropriate, like a public library or a city council meeting."
"I was told," the man eventually spat out, "that I could find a woman here."
"I suppose you're technically correct," she replied. "But I'm not sure why you felt the need to bring my door into this."
After thinking really hard about it, something dislodged itself and the man started over. "Is this 'Bottom of the Barrel, We Get Paid, So You Get Laid?'"
"You've seen our ad."
"A friend of mine referred me. He suggested I come here to help with my..." he said, trailing off in that way one does when one desperately wishes to have the other character finish the first character's sentence.
"With your...?" she replied, bravely refusing to follow convention.
"Romance problem," he euphemism'd.
"Well, I'm not sure what you were told, but I'm afraid my door simply isn't interested."
The man huffed, hurting his tender wittle headums in the process. "This is ridiculous."
"I agree," she said, holding the door open. "Would you like to come inside and perhaps spend some money, then?"
And after an uncomfortable, protracted self-assurance that he would not, in fact, bash his skull against the shop door, the man stepped inside.
"Tell me a bit about yourself, Mr..." the young lady started, guiding him over to her desk and trailing off in that way one does when needing to know someone's name.
"Customer. My name is Customer."
"Bit odd, isn't it?"
"It's the best I could come up with."
She nodded. "I'm sure it was, Mr. Customer. Now, let me know how I can do so, and I'll be absolutely frothy to rid you of some, most, or all of your money."
"I want a woman."
"I think you simpleton'd something about that, yes. But what sort of woman are interested in?"
"Oh, you know the sort. Kind, loving--"
"Smart and beautiful?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all. Quite a common request. Any particular aesthetic, make, or model?"
"No, no. I'll take whatever I can get. Just someone who loves me, is all."
YOU ARE READING
Bone-chilling buffoonery! Nerve-wracking silliness! Twisted nitwittery! An anthology of absurd serials and one-shot shot tales by "Amoral Crackpot" Steve Arviso.