
Why the bad vibes? The clerks treat me very well because I don't chat for 20 minutes about how my centerpiece will look, or ask about the allergens in the Styrofoam Christmas reef bases. No, if I find what I want, I have payment ready, and am gone quicker than Keyzer Sose.
Maybe it's the fact that a man is on the loose without his wife keeping him in tow, or maybe its because I'm invading some kind of private club. I certainly don't try to sneak a peak through any of the sweatshirts with turkey appliques and embroidered pilgrims all over them to catch a breast shot.
I have started giving the icy stare right back, as if to say, "I feel sorry for your husband, the poor sonofabitch."
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