In Line At The Wawa... Dude In Front Of Me

It just came out of me.

“Dude, I hope you’re not offended, but I really like your scar.”

He had an exceptionally deep
Long scar that ran up the center
Of the back of his neck
Surging up the back of his skull
Like a jagged pink river
On a map of closely shaven hair.

It was the kind of scar
Where they peeled your skin back
Like a grapefruit
To do some serious work within
That you couldn’t
And wouldn’t
Want to be concious for.

A savage kind of scar.
A trophy scar.

He turned and looked at me
His lip curled in disgust
Like I had just farted.

Me...

“I’m not gay or anything.”

“I was just admiring your scar.”

“I like scars.”
“They tell a story.”

He gave me the brush off
A silent pissed off second glance.

He pushed his purchase
Towards the cashier.

They’re still called ‘Cashiers’ these days, right?

Or...

So
The ‘Financial Administrator’
Pushed buttons
And totalled up
His Reese’s Pieces
Large coffee
And frozen chocolate push up pop.

He looked at her
And not at me.

She smiled patiently as he counted his money.

Her ‘Guest Service’ training
Was worn on her sleeve.

He paid exact change
And without waiting for his receipt
He got out of there
Leaving me next in line
Without telling me
A really good story.