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You were the flirty brunette working at You’re Higher’d, I was the handsome customer in the short-sleeve flannel and a felt bowler hat, bolo tie, black leather Converse, and Che Guevara T-shirt.
As soon as I saw you carrying those heavy boxes from the back room I knew I had to stop you. You tried to smile and walk around me, but I stepped in front of you because OMG, your smile! I got you to stop by asking what sales were going on. You told me to ask my budtender, which I knew was code for “hover around until you were the next available one.”
The look on your face when I stepped up and asked for the specials was priceless! I feel like I got a good feel for your character while you were pulling out all the products I wanted to check out. You spent more time with me than anyone else — even the lady with glaucoma you had to read the labels to. I made you do that for me, too, all so we could spend more time together. Devious, I know, but as they say, love is a battlefield.
I could tell you were signaling for me to make a move when you were playfully playing with your hair, laughing at my corny jokes and complimenting my money clip. If you like that, wait till you see my sword collection. I forged them myself. And if you play your cards right, there might be a live demonstration in your future.
I love how you were already saying “we” about everything, too. “We can’t give stuff away or we’ll get in trouble.” I knew what you meant.
Oh, and thanks for taking the first step and getting my phone number. I’ve been replying to all your texts “YES” like you asked. You’re so thoughtful to send me the specials everyday at the same time! It’s like we already have an inside joke. That kind of stuff is why you put the “tender” in “budtender.”
And when you stopped me from leaving to “ask for your pen back,” I knew you wanted to see me again. Thank you for pointing out the tip jar, you silly rascal, but I’m saving my money for our second date. Unless you’re a feminist like me, then we can go dutch.
By the way — not a big deal, I’m sure it’s mislabeled or rang up wrong on the cash register or something — I think you meant to give me your employee discount on that top shelf flower you recommended, but it turned out to be a CBD blend!
I’m waiting to light it until we can smoke it together. I can’t spark the perfect blend without my perfect match, can I? And I’m hoping my perfect match girl is you! Stop playing around already and text me back!
Paulina Combow is a writer and stand-up comedian. She contributes to Reductress and Ladyspike Media and has had funny essays published in The Washington Post. Find her at paulinacombow.me
