Page 19 of Strung Along

Screw it all to hell, but I snap too many pictures before choosing the one that looks the least awkward and sending it. It takes her a minute to reply, and for those long sixty seconds, I contemplate blocking her and trying to forget the past few minutes.

Banana: Well howdy there farmer.

Me: Nobody actually says howdy around here.

Banana: Tough crowd. Did you get in a fight with a jug of oil today? God your clothes are dirty.

Me: I’ve been dirtier.

Banana: Kinky. Where does one go to buy a pair of those boots? I’ve never had a pair before.

I store that piece of information away, even if I’ll never need it.

Me: Depends where you’re from.

Banana: Nuh-uh. Just because you have a nice looking body doesn’t mean you aren’t old nor a creeper. Nice try.

Me: Since a photo didn’t prove anything, the demand for it was just to get your rocks off huh?

Banana: My rocks are still very much on, you filthy cowboy.

Me: I don’t think I’ve been called a filthy cowboy before. I like it.

Not nearly as much as I like having a stranger tell me I have a nice-looking body. Albeit a stranger with great legs and curves for days, from what I remember from that quick glance at the photo. I haven’t looked at it since. It feels like an invasion of her privacy to do that.

Banana: I aim to please. Now, tell me how many cowboy hats you have. I’m going to guess and say . . .

Banana: Fifteen.

Me: Not even close.

Banana: Twenty?

Me: Three. They’re hats not underwear.

Banana: You have twenty pairs of underwear?

Me: Do you always turn everything into a question?

Banana: I do when it involves conversing with a stranger.

Me: Is that something you do often?

Some tiny, annoying part of me hopes that it isn’t. Dammit, I need to get out more. Do anything besides hide in this shop and ignore the world outside of it. Cows and tractors are shit conversationalists, and while my throat still kills, I need to talk to someone. Someone who isn’t judging me for something they’ll never understand or pretending to want to speak in order to get something.

I don’t know when my life turned into such a fucking embarrassment, but I need to figure it out. Soon.

Banana: No. My sister would actually kill me if she knew I was doing this.

Me: Older or younger sister?

Banana: Older. Only by a few years. Do you have siblings?

Me: No. I’m an only child.

Banana: What about pets?

Me: Not technically. You?

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