Finish Me by EB Jones

Finish Me
     
    The grocery store was on the corner of Hawthorne and Emerson. It had a dark green facade with white lettering. There were bikes parked outside, leaning against one another, blocking the sidewalk. Women in designer jeans and sunglasses pushed shopping carts with toddlers hanging on, as though children could be fashion accessories. Just outside the main door, traffic waited for the crosswalk to clear before passing through, impatient to get out of the bottleneck formed by this store and its clientele.
     
    This was where all the well-to-do people in the area bought their food, if they bought their own food at all. Inside, you could also find people wearing shirts that said 'personal shopper' roaming through the aisles, filling carts, checking items off lists. They represented another class of people entirely – those too self-important to buy their own milk, people who had lost touch with what it meant to take care of themselves.
     
    At aisle nine, the checkout closest to the open side entrance of the store, there were two men. One tall, black, muscular. He was the cashier. When women and children came through his checkout line, he smiled easily and gave organic snacks to the children who smiled back. The women averted their eyes and blushed when he spoke to them, especially when he told them that they looked nice in their [insert garment here, however plain. He found beauty in all things female.]
     
    “Dave, why the hell do you have to flirt with every single fucking woman who walks through here?” said Matt.
     
    Matt worked in Dave's checkout aisle and bagged groceries. They had been deemed a high performing team by the management of the store. It was true, they could scan and bag faster than any other pair of workers in the store. But it also meant that they also always ended up working together. The bean counters wouldn't have it any other way.
     
    “You need to understand something, my man,” said Dave. “I talk to these women because they all bring something beautiful to our little corner of the world. You ever wonder how many times they hear genuine, kind words at home? I guarantee you it isn't very often.”
     
    “You're full of shit.”
     
    “Maybe.”
     
    “No, you're definitely full of shit.”
     
    “Hey, ok. Maybe a little bit. But just take a look. Over there, for example,” said Dave, making a subtle gesture pointing across the store.
     
    Matt turned and looked toward the bread aisle. There was an older woman, perhaps in her late 50's, wearing a white cap and tight black yoga pants. She had the ass of a thirty year-old. She reached up to get a loaf of bread from the top rack, and her taught calves responded by changing shape, lifting her the remaining distance with ease.
     
    “OK, so yeah, that's a milf, or a gilf, whatever. What's your point?” said Matt.
     
    Dave raised his eyebrows. “You telling me you've never had a taste of the sweet ripe apple?” he said.
     
    “You're a sick fuck,” said Matt.
     
    “Then you're a fucking age discriminating sonofabitch,” said Dave. “I'm serious, these older women are some of the best, most beautiful lays around.”
     
    Matt shook his head. A blonde woman approached. She had a toddler riding in her grocery cart and another child walking next to her. She didn't look up at Matt or Dave. She seemed to be drawn into the glowing screen of her phone, slave to the fear of missing out.
     
    “Did you find everything you were looking for?” said Dave.
     
    “Yes, thanks,” she said.
     
    Her eyes never left her phone.  Dave passed the groceries over the scanner, and it made its regular, most unpleasant beep with each item that passed over the infrared beam. Matt pulled out two paper bags  (these rich women always liked having their groceries double bagged, even if they were only buying a bag of tortilla chips) and began to pick up the woman's items and place them in the bag. 1% milk ($3.29). A bottle of probiotics ($32.99) from