Page 68 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“Plus this place is practically in my backyard. Or, front yard, rather…I live right across the street.”

I lean to the right to look out the windows behind him. Perhaps if I can catch a glimpse of where he says he lives, I can cross check it with the vision I already saw and put two-and-two together, but no dice. All I can see is a city bus boarding a line of passengers wearing puffy coats on the street. I guess time will tell.

“So how’s business today?” he asks.

“A little slow,” I admit. “Which is weird because the holidays are coming up. You’d think people would want these for stocking stuffers—or maybe even just for themselves. Everyone wants someone to kiss as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, right?”

I point to my display.

“Love Potion,” he reads the sign slowly. “So that’s really a thing, eh?”

“I’m hoping it is,” I say. “I made a whole vat of it in my bathtub. Going to add insult to injury if these don’t sellandthe rose petal stained the porcelain for good.”

“It’ll come out. Just make a paste with one part peroxide and two parts baking soda. It has to be three percent hydrogen peroxide though. You’ll want to apply the paste with a damp sponge and let it sit for about a half hour before gently scrubbing and then rinsing.”

Brain like a hard drive, I remind myself.

“So what do these things do?” Ollie asks, picking up a jar and giving it a once over.

Before now, I’d assume he was humoring me by asking. But now that I see how his brain works, I genuinely believe he is thirsty for knowledge—even if the subject has nothing to do with the laws of physics.

“It’s a sensual oil. The little ones, you roll on your wrist. Kind of like a perfume sample. The big ones, you spray around in the open air and it triggers the senses of those around you to help manifest romantic desires.”

“Interesting. Can I try?”

“Sure,” I say, handing him the tester tube. He rolls a bit on his wrist and sniffs it.

“Are you in love with me yet?” he asks.

The question nearly knocks me out. He’s being facetious. But the truth is, maybe, possibly, someday, Icouldbe. I know he isn’t expecting me to answer, so he trails on.

“Well, I’m going to be honest. I can’t say I believe it works. But, if that’s what you say these things do…then you need to shout it from the rooftop. Advertise your key selling point. That’s Sales 101. Go to enough meetings at The Brockmeier with someone from themarketing team present, and you learn stuff like that.”

“Shouting is not really my style,” I say. Thanks to the Shereé effect, I haven’t had to ‘advertise’ anything—and I don’t plan on starting now.

“Come on! This is a city full of people who are tired of Tinder. Who needs a dating app when all you need is a spritz of Moonie Miller’s Special Love Potion and a Friday night at a bar—preferably one with a goodHVAC system so this stuff can circulate through the air! That’s how you would hook someone like me, at least.”

I never thought I’d have a crush on a guy whose love language isgood HVAC.

Just then, Ollie darts over to the booth next to me—a pop-up coffee shop who is already sold out for the day. I can see him talking to the person working the table, but I can’t hear what either are saying. A moment later the two shake hands. Ollie proceeds to grab his chalkboard sandwich sign and bring it over to my table.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Helping you,” he says. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to pay me.”

Ollie uses the sleeve of his plaid long sleeve button-down to erase the words “COFFEE SOLD OUT” from the sign. He then pulls a piece of chalk from the back of his blue jean pocket and writes, “FUCK TINDER. GET LOVE POTION INSTEAD.”

“There,” he says, positioning the sign so that anyone walking in front of my table will have to stop, read it, and see what the hype is all about instead of ignoring my presence altogether.

“I like it. But…I don’t think you can write the word ‘fuck.’ This is a family-friendly event,” I explain as a mom pushing a double stroller passes by and gives me a death stare.

He erases the U and turns it into a * instead.

“Better?”

Before I can run the aesthetic changes he’s made to my sales floor by Yas, Shereé Jackson approaches my table in one of her signature swoon-worthy looks—high-waisted black leather pants with a gold belt emblazoned with two big “Gs”. I’m not one for name brands, but even I recognize the Gucci logo. Tucked into that is a silk, cream colored blouse. She’s wearing thin, tortoise shell-colored sunglasses—inside. Probably to deflect the shine of her five-carat diamond engagement ring.

“Hey, Shereé!” I exclaim as I pop out from behind my desk and give her a hug.

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