Panic at the Whole Foods .

What a waste to be yelled at by someone so beautiful without the benefit of a close intimate relationship

She spied me just as I looked up, and made a hurried beeline over toward me, expertly navigating her cart amongst the bins of produce, the clickety-clack of the wheels over the oddly spaced tiles of the floor getting louder as she approached, until we were finally face to face.

From behind a mask, I heard the muffled sounds of protest as she upbraided me for not being likewise encumbered. The shrieks pierced through the fabric covering her mouth and even though I couldn’t make out every word, it was clear that she was angry.

She seemed personally offended that I would walk around in public, maskless, and even worse, with the temerity to smile.

I can play that game too. Remembering the admonishments of Dr. Fauci, the patron saint of hysteria, I advised her to “keep six feet lady!”

Truth is she wasn’t a lady, but an incredibly beautiful woman about thirty years old, with long legs, thick wavy brunette hair, and mesmerizing eyes.

What a waste it is to be yelled at by someone so beautiful without the benefit of a close intimate relationship.

I can take a good scolding from my girl, accepting it with patience and forbearance, knowing there’s probably some upside to it all once the dust cleared and we made up, and she showed me she loved me like only she can, but here it was all for naught.

Sigh.

At the six feet remark, she was fit to be tied, and blasted me with another tirade about me wanting her dead and something about a prison camp and various forms of corporal punishment and other unpleasantness. She really had it out for me.

I could tell that she liked me. Nobody has that much passion for someone they hate - that’s reserved for what stirs something scary deep inside of you, and I had something she wanted but was afraid of.

Actual real hatred is much calmer, almost indifferent, marked by contempt and resolve, but never really outbursts. It’s seething, contemptuous, a low burning flame but not sharp. It taunts, it can be cruel and vengeful, but doesn’t explode, it burns slowly. It’s full of cunning and guile, biding its time like a thief, waiting for its perfect moment before it reveals. No, this wasn’t hatred. I touched some deep longing in her soul.

I liked her too.

Through the screams I was hypnotized, staring at what I imagined were her full lips and perfect teeth, bared and exposed, her lovely perky breasts heaving with effort, her long, slim finger pointing at me accusatorially, hypnotizing me further.

Through the din of her lamentations, all I could think about was pressing her up against the bottles of Topo Chico and kissing her, if only to shut her up. Maybe she wanted me to kiss her too.

But not just kiss her, I wanted to bring her to touch that part of herself that she was so frightened of, to gaze at it with terror and trembling and ultimately victory - to feel the release of self-denial that only the most courageous can feel when they’ve faced their demons and been shown they never had any power at all except what was freely given to them.

This was a fantasy.

In the end she settled on slamming into my kneees with her cart before spinning around on her perfect long legs and huffing off toward the deli. Surely her anger was the boiling kind, quick to arise and slow to dissipate. No doubt she’d take it all out on her boyfriend when she got home.

Lucky guy.

###

Dan Fleuette is a photographer, author, and filmmaker best known for his body of work with Steve Bannon and WarRoom. His national best-seller Rebels, Rogues, and Outlaws: A Pictorial History of WarRoom can be found on doitfluet.com

No AI machines were harmed in this writeup.