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Dear Gristedes clerk:

You seem genuinely sweet, so I doubt you realize how much you embarrassed me tonight.

You have been ringing up cans of Simon’s Fancy Feast for several months now — you do so almost every time I enter your place of employment, in fact. Why, then, did you pick this very night, when behind me stood no fewer than four handsome men dressed in varying modes of Saturday night-appropriate finery, to start asking me questions about cat care?

Had you asked me about your sick kitten last week, I’d have been happy to discuss vets and food options and anything else that might help him or her. But tonight? Tonight when I was in glasses, a hoodie and tennis shoes with unwashed hair pulled into an untidy pony tail and clearly had no Saturday night plans that did not involve my sofa and a book? Tonight when the only items in my basket were juice, herbal tea and 10 cans of Fancy Feast? Tonight when a whole line of strapping men stood and with visible impatience listened to us talk about your cat’s digestive ailments?

Oh, woman. I know you can’t have meant to make me blush so furiously, but blush furiously I did. Please don’t do that again. Oh, and do take your kitten to the vet. I know some excellent doctors who work just around the corner.

Rock and Roll Grammarian


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