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Author Topic: Maternal Instincts (Kendallbelongstoarchon)  (Read 170 times)

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Offline Kenzie

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Maternal Instincts (Kendallbelongstoarchon)
« on: September 09, 2021, 01:57:50 AM »
I normally don’t shop at the Fast Mart, even though it's closer to my apartment. It’s not all that rundown or poorly stocked, but it just has this air of poverty and resignation to it. Not that I’m rich or snobby; by no means am I affluent. I do well enough for myself, but I don’t largely consider myself to be a member of the highlife. I pay my bills, I treat myself to cute new outfits sometimes, but I’m by no means “well-off.” But this shop just doesn’t feel welcoming. The air is stale, almost as stale as the employees. The customers seem to have a sort of drooping, dripping sadness to themselves, like people who know that they’ve missed out on what the world truly has to offer, and have fully resigned themselves to the drudgery of life at the bottom of the heap. So no, I prefer to do my last-minute, late-night shopping at the Stop and Shop on Regal and 5th.

Yet, here I am, casually perusing an offering of wilted lettuce, the left toe of my blue Brooks tapping softly on the dull tile floors. It’s late, around 10 pm, but my usual shopping left me absent of the necessary ingredients for Pho; whether or not this hole in the wall store will carry what I’m searching for is another matter entirely. It seems to cater entirely to college students and old, single men. Ramen, frozen dinners, and instant rice grace the dusty shelves.

I step back as a heavyset older man trudges past, his eyes roving up and down my form as he passes, making no attempt to veil the fact that he is checking me out. I cut a glare in his direction that he misses, as his eyes are trained directly on my chest. I’m hardly dressed up, wearing an oversized hoodie emblazoned with the Seattle Seahawks logo and an old, faded pair of Lulu Lemon yoga pants. The pants themselves give little to the imagination regarding the state of my legs, and I can hardly fault the man for noticing. Yeah, I do squats. But my sweatshirt does an admirable job disguising the generous pair that nature saw fit to offer me, yet this dried-out chunk of a man does his best to mentally remove the fabric from my torso.

“Men…” I mutter silently to myself. It’s no wonder I have no interest in them; heavyset, loud, smelly, clumsy in their compliments, and even worse in bed. “Sorry boys, this club is girls only.”

My attention returns to the faded leaves in front of me, and I shake my head, my dark brown ponytail swaying slightly. The produce is pathetic, and I doubt the clerk here can even spell arugula, no less stock it. I sigh defeatedly and move down the musty aisle.

The shrill voice of a toddler grabs my attention away from a box of cheerios, and I look towards the sound in annoyance. Children also do not strike my fancy. Loud and annoying and constantly in need of attention. Almost worse than men in certain avenues. This one is no different, as it almost trips over its own feet in its quest to grab for a bag of rice gracing a lower shelf. It appears to be her; I gather by the dirty pink shirt and purple princess shorts. “Mommy!” she calls back behind the turn of the aisle, putting her back into dragging the bag onto the floor. “Mommy, can we get this??”

A woman who I presume instantly to be “mommy” turns the corner, and I cock my head in interest. She’s small, slight, no more than 24 or 25. Her dark blonde hair has a hint of red in it, and it’s tied back in a frayed bun, fly-aways dancing around her face. Tired blue eyes peer down at her small human, now trying to carry the rice. Her face is weary but has a strange, mystic beauty to it. Her plain white t-shirt, cut slim, reveals a shapely and well-built body, one that is accustomed to but not hardened by labor. Blue skinny jeans do about as effective a job at hiding her lower form as my Lulu Lemons do, but I am appreciative of the information they declare. This mother is no couch-potato, that’s clear to me.

“No, honey, we’re not here for that,” she replies to the toddler, and her voice is warm, with a raspy husk to it.

I watch as she extends her hand to her child, the wheel of the cart wiggling as they turn down the aisle, heading away from me. I appreciate the view of the mother’s receding form, conscious that my own eyes are conducting the same task that I accused the previous man of. But there’s something about this young mother that I want. I clear my mind and start down the aisle, approaching the two, a warm smile gracing my lips, my hazel eyes sparkling.
If I can struggle, you're not doing your job.

Offline Kendallbelongstoarchon

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Re: Maternal Instincts (Kendallbelongstoarchon)
« Reply #1 on: September 19, 2021, 02:33:12 PM »
I felt uneasy as a heavyset man walked past me, clearly checking me out.  Rachel kept darting from shelf to shelf oblivious to how uncomfortable mommy was.  Eventually he left and Rachel was asking about something that would give her diabetes and rot her teeth. 
     “No honey we’re not here for that.”  I bend over and gently put it back before catching Rachel’s handstand adjusting my hand to push the cart one handed.  Being a single mother, had it’s own life skills.  Between school and work, I had to raise Rachel alone.  I shook, my head, my messy bun gently thrashing around my head.  Grabbing a few more items, I turned and headed in the direction of the checkout, Rachel in tow. 
RC slut.  Use me and abuse me.


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