Taittinger

"Excuse me,

I need an employee to unlock the fine liquor, please." She hurriedly asked.

What a big girl, not even accountable for 21 birthdays, yet here she was, inquiring.

"Who are you trying to kid, kid?" I thought.

But her eyes were too grey and her hair was too straight for dishonesty so I played along.

"I'll be 'round in a minute, dear."

So I finished bagging the pop-tarts and dryer sheets.

She was crouching next to an ancient man, examining the luxery champagne through the plastic barrier. I open it.

"I don't want Nappa Mumm's! I want french, La France. What's this bottle say?"

His decrepit arm could barely hold the bubbly to his tired eyes. She steadied them by holding the neck. I flinched at the near spill of $169.

"Nope that's not authentic either, Nappa again."

More grabbing, more flinching, more steadying.

What patience.

"1996 Taittinger, see? It's french! Not Mumm's, but it'll do right?"

And she held his hand in one champagne in the other as they returned to the register.

She helped him with his wallet, slid his card, and even signed for the damn alcohol.

And like a fluttering moth, she was on her way.

I watched her load him into a white sudan, and drive away.

Such a big girl.

I saw her again, once, alone this time, at the gas station. I wish I knew what business she and those eyes had on this planet.