That’s what he said.
“Goodnight, my love.”
The first time
I thought perhaps it was a fluke–like the time the waiter at The
Cheesecake Factory called me “milady”– after all, I was grocery
shopping at midnight, what did I expect but a stout man with a mustache
waiting to usher me out with my sour patch kids, wish me goodnight, and
call me my love?
I dismissed it. Slip of the tongue. Impulse. Dare.
Four nights later I was back. Rite Aid isn’t open late, and if you show
up at Vons past, oh…nine or so, you’ll see that one of the doors is
blocked by a hefty row of carts, and there at the other he waits with
his gray butcher’s jersey and ready smile.
I contemplated driving somewhere further to avoid the awkward DTR. “I’m
sorry, Mr. Doorman, but I don’t feel that way about you.” No. That was
silly. Afterall, I had misheard. Right? At least this time I would be
I held my chin up high and approached with resolve. I was not to be
trifled with. (But I had reason to regret that half my wardrobe is
flowy skirts and shoes with bows on them.)
“Good evening,” I said, pointedly.
“Good evening. Welcome, my love.”
It was definitely my love. I walked away, wondering how he could ever get away with such a greeting.
But smiling a little to myself. Late-night errands are much improved by antiquated terms of endearment.
Buying salt and vinegar potato chips and half and half was suddenly, sort of, romantic.