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Leche & Herb

“Alright, here comes another.” Narrowing my gaze, I consider the woman’s ankle-length floral dress, and the way it coversnearly every square inch of her body, less her feet, hands and face.

“Hmm. I’m gonna say closed door, pinky holding, shoulder grazing.”

I plunk another soggy french fry into the ketchup smeared along the yellow wax paper, and stuff it into my mouth. As theLittle House on the Prairielooking woman pulls open the door to the bookshop, she steps aside, letting another customer out.

She’s got a bag on her arm, heavy books causing the thin plastic to stretch. I keep my eyes away from the contents and on her. She’s wearing faded blue jeans, cropped above the ankle, and a fitted white tank top. Dark hair waves around her shoulders, and when she smiles at the woman holding the door open, I decide.

“Contemporary closed door.” I glance across the cab at Hoover, who is silent, because he’s a vacuum. I’m not delusional. I realize vacuums can’t talk. They don’t do anything but sit there or, when turned on,suck.

Now you know why I love Hoover so much.

He’s the best kind of man.

He always listens.

He’s very agreeable.

He helps me at work.

He’s a good cleaner.

He doesn’t complain.

And God can he suck.

“The shiny hair,” I tell him, “that kind of shine screams hair mask, and you know what hair masks go good with? Contemporary meets baseball.” I wash my bite down. “And college. College for sure.”

Another bite of fries and a sip of Diet Coke. “Only two today, Herb. Probably slow all day, which means we won’t have toomuch to do.” My pulse skips knowing how the easy cleaning nights go.

The less time we have to work, the more time we gettogether.

I wipe my hands on the grease-stained brown napkin and toss it into the empty fast food bag. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had any really long sessions, Herb,” I tell him, as if he doesn’t know.

I mean… hedoesn’tbecause he is a vacuum whom I named Herb because I have totally given up on reality.

Can you blame me? Has anyone else noticed that reality fucking bites?

Finding a good looking guy who isn’t pretentious as fuck is a feat. But finding a good looking, non-pretentious open-minded man who is into whatI’minto? Impossible.

I’ve been laughed at, teased, swiped on, and ghosted one time too many. I’m done dating. I’ve accepted that at age twenty-two, I am in a long term relationship with a wet/dry vac.

You know what?

I’m fucking fine with it.

Collecting my man in my arms, I kick the back of the van closed after grabbing my cleaning caddy. Curving the side of the brick building, we head into the alley and enter the DNF Bookshop through the back.

DNF bookstore.

When they hired me to clean their shop at night, I was excited to have a long-term gig for my cleaning business. And I love the idea of the shop— for every book that isn’t for you and you did not finish, bring it to the Did Not Finish shop in Salem where you can swap your book for a new one. Why? Because one person’s dislike is someone’s main squeeze.

Their motto is a metaphor for my love life, and while I didn’t want to work nights, I couldn’t say no to something that made so much sense to me.

“I’ll go check our section, babe,” I tell Herb as I drop him on the floor in the stock room, my nose wrinkling at the first scent of spines and worn pages; I love the smell of endless stories.

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