the return of granola boy

he wants his grapes. and he wants them now. but not at the insane prices being charged by yes. he is not granola boy. he is an old man, taking ten years to hand me his grapes and then asks five million times how much they cost when i weigh them. and as i am weighing these motherfucking red grapes over and over, he enters stage left. coming through the door like the movie star he is, rays of sunlight streaming in behind him, walking right past me by the cash registers. probably towards the granola. and i hear the same symphony that diana and the girls heard. he is near, and i am aflutter. he came last sunday too. maybe he only comes on sunday night. his end of the week treat for making it through another. some granola from the bulk bin. old man is still grapes grapes gripping like a fucking lunatic. repetition of grapes had cartoon quality to it. and since i was busy with grape man, granola boy went to the open register, bought his granola and left. i watched, looked longingly at granola boy, hoping he would shorty swing my way, but no. and i return to reality, the unsexual place it unfortunantly is for me, and hear an old man talking about grapes. looking at his wrinkles. at the green counter. at the scale. at the grapes. at things sterile and so not sexually arousing. granola boy please come back in for something else. please. man keeps babbling about something and i keep nodding, thinking about how cute granola boy is, and how exciting it is that i have a crush that makes me giddy and feel light in the stomach. that it has been far too long since i have felt the life force - the desire for someone specifically - the last person was probably marky mark. and fucking okay alreay old man, i'll sell you these fucking grapes for less, just please please go away and leave me to my dreams.