The FedEx man, it appears, has a crush on me, because whenever he comes in here he rambles on and on, and all I can think is, "Don't you have somewhere to be in the World? On time?" I could never work for FedEx because I do not believe in clocks and live in that radical state of cracked thumbtips and inculpable delays. Also, my finger is a little infected and it hurts. Ruin my life.
Using the space bar is dreadful.
The other day FedEx mumbled in front of my desk for a good 55 seconds, which is 35 seconds longer than I am comfortable affording him. Something about, "Oh, hey, I always for-get your last name. Oh, that's right, it's uh...Rossi, like the construction company or the furniture sellers in Oakbrook."
"Martini and," I add, handing him back the Electronic Signature Capturererer with my incomprehensible scribble, which is somewhere between "drunkwasted bar tab authorization" and "look my cat can hold a pen." Odd, because my regular handwriting is sexy as hell.
"Or the martini drink, you got it," he bounces nervously and jabs the inkless plastic pen towards me, "Yeah, and we could like go for one of those sometime, right, that is if your husband don't mind then again you're the kind who'd have one that wouldn't, amirite? Yeah unless you're not married and we don't need anyone's permission which would be nice, or we don't have to go get a drink at all we could just keep this professional, right, Rossi?" He grins and guy nods; his silver tooth gleans with all the fidgetting.
I just smile and raise my eyebrows. Now, if it was Troy The Eagle Messenger guy? I would jump on that. He's one of the only bike messengers I've seen that smells like he showers. He's ideal, all Elliot Gould with classically disheveled helmet hair and a crooked nose that's definitely been broken several times. He also lacks metal teeth, which are really a fucking dealbreaker. I think I would have no problem with the metal teeth if we were already dating and he lost a tooth saving a puppy from the mean old dogcatcher (apparently we live in the 1920's), because I would probably make a boyfriend get metal teeth ironically just to be an asshole and ensure that no bitches try to steal my motherfucking puppysaving man.
"Yeah, you know, you're right, we don't need to go for a drink, I mean hey, you don't know me or my name and I always forget your name, what do I know I'm just the guy that drops off the packages. We don't have to do anything, you know, right? Yeah." He grins again amidst all the bouncing.
"Right. See ya later, Jimmy."
"Oh, you do? You? Yeah, I got it, I get it. Nametag. Yeah. Have a good weekend."