Mister Perfect: A Romantic Holiday Story Read online

Mister Perfect:

  A Romantic Short Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of Christmas in Snowflake

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  Mister Perfect

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2015 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © EpicStockMedia – Fotolia.com

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize in advance and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!

  Happy reading… and Happy Holidays!

  Enjoy!

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  Mister Perfect:

  A Romantic Short Story

  He comes in just before closing on a Tuesday night. It’s mid-October, the store festooned with cardboard witches and fake fall leaves, spooky music playing all night long on a continuous loop.

  “Welcome to Dollar Jungle,” I call out, in a decent mood for once because he’ll probably be my last customer of the night and, besides, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes, if you know what I mean.

  Long and lean, in his early thirties, with close cropped brown hair and, as he smiles back at me, soft brown eyes. “Thanks,” he says, voice low and soft as if someone might hear him being polite.

  He’s wearing faded jeans and a worn orange hoodie over a soft brown T-shirt with white writing on it. I can’t see what it says but figure it’s probably something like, “Member of the Sexy Older Guy’s Club”. Yeah, probably something like that.

  I’m in the candy aisle, emptying a fresh shipment of candy corn into the appropriate bin, right between the caramel apple lollipops and the gummi body parts.

  “Just holler if you need help,” I tell him as he drifts into the seasonal aisle without another word.

  I shrug and sigh, imagining how I must look to him in my standard yellow and green Dollar Jungle employee T-shirt, lame khaki pants and faded green sneakers. I always feel like dragging my auburn ponytail through the back of my green ball cap gives me the sexy co-ed look but… who am I fooling?

  I could be wearing a ball gown and hooker heels but when you have to cry out “Welcome to Dollar Jungle” every time the little chime over the front door rings, well… there goes the feminine mystique, you know? Besides, yellow’s never been my color anyway.

  I hum along to the spooky Halloween music that’s been playing ever since my manager, Mr. Archer, turned the big calendar in the employee break room from September to October a few weeks back. You think I’d be tired of it by now but honestly, I don’t even really hear it until the store is empty at the end of the night.

  Right now it’s “Flying Purple People Eater,” but soon enough it will be “Thriller” and then, a few songs later on the endlessly playing loop, the inevitable “Monster Mash”. Then it will start all over with the theme from “Halloween,” but hopefully I’m out of here before I have to hear the CD the whole way through once more tonight.

  Dollar Jungle can’t afford the real versions, of course, so these are like royalty free versions from folks who sound almost, but not quite like, the original artists. Still, it kind of fits the cheap, cheesy vibe of Dollar Jungle, the musical equivalent of a yellow shirt and matching green ball cap.

  I finish with the last of the candy corn, break down the big cardboard box the bags came in and return to the cash register, sliding it in with the rest of the broken down boxes from my nightly stocking duties. I can’t close out my register until the last customer comes and goes, and I don’t hear him hustling over anytime soon, so I straighten the customer bags, start my nightly report page and look up, smiling, when I finally hear him approach the sales counter a few minutes later.

  “Find everything you were looking for?” I ask, brightly, but I can see by the slightly rumpled look on his handsome face he hasn’t. No, he hasn’t at all.

  “Well,” he says, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. “I see in the store flyer there are four patterns of this autumn placemat available, but I only see three on the shelves.”

  He slides the cheap paper flyer on the counter and I nod, clucking my tongue without even looking at the picture he’s pointing to. “Some woman came in and bought all the green ones after lunch today,” I explain. “I guess her daughter’s birthday party is this weekend and she likes green, so… she went a little nuts running down that particular theme. Bought all the green mugs, too, not to mention green balloons, green paper plates, green napkins… you get the idea.”

  I put a big smile there at the end, hoping to placate him but… no doing. “Oh,” he sighs, sliding the three placemats on the table like a kid who’s just gotten socks for Christmas. “Well, do you know when they’ll be anymore in?”

  “I’ve got the order slip right here,” I tell him, pointing to the form on top of my clipboard of daily duties. “I’ll key them in tonight after I close up shop and they should be here on Thursday’s truck.”

  He brightens. “Thanks,” he says, like I’ve done it just for him. Then he looks at my nametag and says, “Mia.”

  I smile and blush a little because… no one ever does that. It’s a little game I play, all day long, smiling and ringing customers up and helping them reach items on the top shelf, poking out my chest where my nametag rests, the rectangular one featuring a picture of “Gus,” the big smiling gorilla, our world famous Dollar Jungle mascot. He’s probably the first customer to say my name in, I dunno… weeks? Maybe even months.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell him, bagging his three seasonal placemats, the one with the matching fall leaf pattern on each. “Anything else tonight?”

  He shakes his head and hands over four singles, getting a few coins back from me in return. “Thanks for shopping Dollar Jungle,” I tell him as he inches away, sliding the change in his pocket. “Sorry about the placemat, sir.”

  He turns with his crinkly plastic Dollar Jungle bag and offers an apologetic smile. “I know it seems silly,” he says, our eyes meeting briefly before he looks back down at his shoes. “To care about such things, but…”

  “Say no more,” I blurt as his voice trails off. “It’s like when a movie comes out and the toys are in the Silly Meals at Burger Barn and I have to collect each one and then one week I forget and I miss the little plastic space alien guy or Mega Man and I freak. Trust me… I get it, completely.”

  He cocks his head, curiously, and gives me a soft little smile. “Yeah, like that I guess…”

  We pause, halfway across the store from each other, smiles fixed, the moment frozen in time until at last he turns and heads for the door. Raising his bag on the way out he stands, half-in, half-out of the front door, and says, “Thanks again.”

  I smile in reply and watch him leave, realizing by the clock on our digital cash register that it’s already after nine!

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