Cheeks as Red as Strawberries

“Oh my God!” I hear myself scream. Overreacting, as usual, I sound more like a victim of violent crime than an absent minded seventeen year old trying to make a smoothie. My stupid, blood curdling scream. I’m standing here, behind the counter of a yogurt shop, covered in strawberry juice from the strands of brown hair that leak out of my ponytail to my black shoes which squeak when I walk. I hate these stupid shoes, splattered with the pink slop. The revering of the blender is persisting, and I’m just standing, paralyzed with the ice-cold liquid flowing down my leg like the Monongahela River, collecting in a pool in between my feet and I look so ridiculous, so down right idiotic.

“Turn it off!” my manager screams, pointing at me, “Oh my God!” Turn it off, turn it off, “How do I turn it off?” and I hear the panic in my voice, that pathetic panic.

It stops, finally; I find myself examining all the gunk, strawberries, wasted, all over the dirty floor. I see his feet, just across from mine, I’ve got them too. I made his tan Diesel shoes victim to my hurricane of fruit, water, and ice. And it’s splattered up his black pants and on his striped polo, too. I bare my strength to meet his brown eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes that stare down at my stupidity personified, my failed concoction. He’s laughing hysterically, and the sound begins to ring in my ears, like Notre Dame at noon. His laughter is as strong as a man and as happy as a child.

“I am so sorry,” I’m pleading, I feel my cheeks flushing like a ripe Globe Tomato, flushing like they always do when I talk to him. He laughs harder, studying my mess, shaking his head. He laughs harder and harder and I blush more and more, I feel purple.

“I’m really sorry,” I’m starting to laugh too, “What do I do now?” I’m laughing with him. Laughing hard because I don’t know what else to do, because I’m so full of emotion and my face is a ripe Globe Tomato and what else could I possibly do?

“It’s really okay. I’m gonna go get the mop and clean it up,” he smiles and I look down because I don’t know what to say. And I try to muster up some stupid phrase, something like, “Oh no, it was my fault,” or “That’s okay, I’ll get it.” But as he walks away, into the back of the store, his right hand squeezes my left shoulder I become the puddle of smoothie itself, liquefied on the pale brown floor.

In Greek mythology, the strawberry represents love, and I think it’s ironic because I am covered in it. It’s like cupid shot his arrow right to the lid of the blender, popping it off like an atomic bomb, sending the rouge juice all over our cloths. I am so in love, but I can’t admit it, I must not admit that. Stop thinking and just do something about this mess.

“Oh my God! Make a new one, now! Oh my God, what are you doing, standing there?” my boss is yelling and I am still paralyzed with emotion, still covered in the explosion. I move to make a new strawberry smoothie but my arms feel like they are shaking without control. My heart is pounding so heavy in my esophagus and my ears grow hot, hot like a Bhut Jolokia chili pepper, the hottest chili pepper in the world.

I look up to the customer, a woman with a kind face, “I am so sorry, just give me a minute to make a new one, I just started last week.” She only nods. Maybe she is reading me, maybe she sees my biceps convulsing with nerves.

He reappears; mop in hand, ready to take care of me, to mop up my stupidity from the floor. I can’t look away. He is mopping back and forth and his arms are so strong, I just can’t look away. He takes a minute, resting on the wooden pole of the mop, and is looking at me with a smile that I can’t return. I can’t smile so bright, I can’t bring so much joy in just a smile. He licks some of the strawberry from his wrist.