Page 88 of Stroked Long
All in all, it’s worked out better for me because during a yarn sale I only purchase what I can carry. That way, I don’t get out of hand in my spending, but this go around, with my coupon and a burly man carrying around my yarn, I get to indulge a little.
“He’s right,” a little old lady with fire-red hair says. Gripping on to Bodi’s bicep, she ogles him. “I’d go with soft white just so I can get home to this fine piece of man.” Snapping her dentures at Bodi, she does a growling sound and then takes off.Did I really just hear a wrinkle sac growl? At Bodi?
Bodi, the ever so polite man in public, mouths, “What the fuck?” I cover my mouth and giggle from the wide eyes he’s showing under the brim of his A’s hat.
“Soft white it is.” I tuck two packets into his already full arms. “All right, I think I have all I need.”
Scanning what we’ve gathered, Bodi asks, “Not that I’m judging you and your craft supplies, but why do you need all this yarn?”
I place my hands on my hips and tilt my head, scanning Bodi. “Besides the fact that it’s an amazing sale and any idiot would be dumb to pass up on the opportunity to stock up on yarn, my mom and I spend the second half of the year knitting scarves and hats for the Special Olympic athletes around the country.”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Special Olympics, you’ve heard of it, right?”
“Of course,” Bodi says. “There is a club that comes in on Fridays for pool time. I’ve hung around them a few times, some of the best athletes I’ve ever had the pleasure of swimming with.”
Be still my heart.
Do not stick your tongue down this man’s throat in the middle of the yarn aisle. Self-respect, Ruby.
Clearing my throat, I say, “So you’re familiar. Well, they have winter games every year and just like you, they have an opening ceremony where they conclude with a parade of athletes. Different clubs and regions wear different colors. There is a large group of women who make scarves and hats in the specified colors for the athletes to wear during opening ceremonies. You know . . . since they’re not sponsored by Ralph Lauren.”
“You really do that?” Bodi asks, almost as if he can’t believe it.
I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, why not? I think it is a great thing to do.”
All I receive in response is a curt nod. I can tell he’s thinking something over; what it is, I have no idea, but he’s getting lost in his head, which means he’s retreating. Time to call an end to my yarn shopping. I have plenty of spools to last me quite a long time.
“I think I’m good. Let’s head to check out.”
Nodding again, he follows behind me, quiet the whole time as he lugs my yarn around. His silence is eerie, and I’m wondering if I did or said something wrong. Recounting the last five minutes of our conversation, I can’t pinpoint anything. If I wasn’t afraid to scare him away, I would be frustrated. I’ve always been about communication and not closing yourself off, so interacting with Bodi has been difficult. There have been times where I’ve wanted to shake him and ask him what’s wrong, but I know that’s not the way to handle this man. He’s broken—for some reason—and he needs a gentle touch.
“Wow, you sure are taking advantage of the yarn sale,” the salesperson says as I start to unload Bodi. “What do you plan on making? Baby blankets?”
I used to work at a craft store, so I know it is always a requirement to ask the customer what they are making. Frankly, I hated it because I either got answers that were sweet like a baby blanket for my new grandson, or I got an answer from one of the closet craft creeps who said they needed to replace the bedazzle on their double-sided dick sling. Don’t even ask. I couldn’t get that image out of my head for a while.
“Just knitting some scarves and hats.”
“Do you do craft fairs?”
“No, she donates them,” Bodi pipes up, pinning the salesperson with a death glare.
Okay, someone is looking a little psychotic and it’s neither me nor Clark, the poor teenager ringing up the yarn.
Rubbing Bodi’s arm, I try to ease the tension in his body as Clark finishes up.
“That will be sixty-one dollars and thirteen cents, ma’am,” Clark says. Forty spools of yarn even on sale puts a slight dent in my grocery shopping money but that’s okay. It’s worth it.
“I have a coupon.” I hand it over and Clark gives me the updated price.
I go to swipe my card when a large hand stops me. Looking up at Bodi, who is hovering over me, he says in a rough voice, “I got this,” and then proceeds to hand Clark cash.
Not bothering with his change, Bodi grabs the bags and heads out of the store.
Credit card in hand, purse open, and a stunned face, Clark and I both look at each other. Awkwardly, his voice cracks when he says, “Uh, does that man want his change?”
Looking at Bodi’s retreating back, I shake my head. “Doesn’t look like it.” Patting his hand, I say, “Buy yourself something pretty, Clark.”
