The last time I attempted to call my husband at his office, I got someone else.
What clue, you may ask, finally revealed to me the fact that I was speaking a complete stranger? And that I had somehow managed, in this briefest of intervals, to refer to the stranger as “baby” on at least two occasions, maybe more?
It wasn’t the depth of the voice. It wasn’t the change in the pacing of the words. The static on my cell phone was fairly thick, so those things didn’t come across too clearly. No, it was something far more fundamental. It was the words themselves.
The deep voice, who must have been as confused as I was about to whom he was speaking, seemed to be saying that he was at the grocery store “picking up a few things.”
My real husband had not set foot in a grocery store within the last five years. So, naturally, that clued me in. I realized my mistake, apologized to the impostor and quickly hung up, somewhat disappointed.
Damn! Just when the dialog was getting good, I had to go and ruin it by being the wrong woman.
And that was that.
Well… sort of.
Ever since that conversation, I catch myself fantasizing about a handsome stranger I like to call “Grocery Man.” I don’t really know what he looks like; I’ve only heard his voice. But, in my mind’s eye, he’s always tall with golden brown skin and a firm physique.
Thing is, due to some glitch caused by my practical side, I can’t quite picture his face. In my daydreams, everything above his shoulders always seems to be obscured by the large, food-laden paper bags that he’s carrying for me.
“Oh yeah, baby, you know what momma likes. Grab that case of sodas for me. Do it slow.”