“The fucking whore wrote her phone number on the receipt!” I was slightly furious.
He just looked at me and shrugged, not fathoming the meaning. “I guess she does that to provide better customer service.”
He is always so oblivious. “It’s her damn cell phone number! The store number is right here on the top of the receipt!” I shoved the newly crumpled receipt into his face.
In a sarcastic slut-voice I mocked her assumed behavior. “I’m Cindy the lingerie salesperson.” I shimmied my body in a caricature of being wanton. “Call me Cindy, heart, heart, heart…In fact, call me any time.”
“It’s not like that,” he waved to me as if it were no big deal.
“Bullshit!” I countered. “You don’t write your name, all swoopy like that, with three hearts around your fucking phone number to provide a positive customer experience unless you’re a whore. Did her name tag say ‘Cindy the Whore’?”
“Nah,” he dismissed again, totally missing the point, as always. “I think she was just trying to be funny because I was teasing her.”
“You fucking teased her? Why are you so dense? What did you call her?”
He shrugged again and launched that pussy-melting, crooked smile of his that made his eyes sparkle. “Original Cindy.”
My face spoke my dissatisfaction for me.
“Look,” he continued. “It’s no big deal. I don’t know why she did it. I didn’t even look at the receipt.”
I saw Marcy poke her reddened face out from the back room and quickly go back into hiding.
“Original Cindy, as in ’Original Sin’?” I think I was shouting. “You fucking flirted back with her, brought up sin which would make her think about sex, with you I might add, and you’re clueless over why the fuck she gave you her number!“
I adopted my sarcastic slutty bimbo voice once more. “If you like, I’ll model them for you!”
“Krystal,” Glade said to me. “She didn’t offer to model them for me.”
“I’m shocked!”
His expression got just a bit sheepish. I knew that look; there was more here than he wanted to volunteer.
“What? You’d better fucking tell me!”
He shrugged and smiled as if he were totally clueless that I was in a rage. “She was wearing the same thing in red and kind of showed me.”
“She fucking flashed you her designer panties? Diana fucking Pan!”
“You have it all wrong,” he soothed. “She just mentioned how well they fit because they are her favorites and she was wearing them.” He threw up his arms. “She kind of just flipped up the front of her skirt to show me the cut.”
“Get the fuck out of my store!” I stamped my foot and pointed dramatically towards the door.
He just smiled. “As you wish,” he said, sounding slightly amused at my behavior.
He reached for the box but I snatched it away. The box did say “Agent Provocateur,” after all.
He left, brazenly appraising me with his eyes before stepping out. As always, his stare left me dripping wet. Being enraged and incredibly horny is an interesting mix of emotions.
Where did he find Agent Provocateur lingerie in this town, I mused. A couple of weekends ago he had torn my seven-dollar Shein panties off of me and had promised to replace them. My delight at the gift was eclipsed by the jealousy-inducing, probably intentional, gesture of “Original Cindy,” the whore.
Marcy emerged from hiding in the back room and slowly approached me. “Are you alright?”
“Fucking fine, Marcy. He’s just so infuriating sometimes.”
“I really don’t think he knew anything about it. He was just trying to give you an intimate gift.”
“It isn’t just this, Marcy.” I complained. “He’s always showering me with gifts; it’s not normal. If I say I like something, it magically appears all wrapped up like this.” I held up the box and noted a dry-cleaning receipt fell out. The fucker had the panties dry-cleaned before giving them to me!
“Can you imagine what it’s like to be constantly doted over like that?”
“Heaven?” she responded in a dreamy voice.
I ignored her. “Everywhere we go, women throw themselves at him! He just trucks on, totally oblivious. It pisses me off.”
I did an impression of his voice. “Nah, stop fretting, m’lady, she was only being nice.”
“Krystal, as your friend, let me say this. Take a chill-pill.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t always be, well, his damned self! Every woman on the planet, including mom, is trying to steal him from me.”
“Such the drama queen!” Marcy chuckled at me. “Your problem is that you’re so used to guys being frogs you can’t accept the fact that you’ve found Prince Charming. Stop being obsessed over finding something nefarious and enjoy it.”
“You’re fired, Marcy.”
She laughed at that; it has been a running joke for well over a year.
“Take your lunch, boss lady, before your tantrums scare off our customers.”
She was right; I needed to calm down. I took his gift, designer lace panties in my size, up to my office and studied them for a moment. They were soft, delicate, finely cut and stitched, and of much better quality than my Amazon-purchased panties.
Mentally shrugging, I removed my budget thong from under my short cotton skirt and tried them on. Not only were they comfortable, but they fit perfectly. I secretly wished I could afford them for daily wear.
With my insecure, jealous rage subsiding, I decided to actually go get lunch and finish calming myself down. Mom, Kiera, my online friend “K”, and now even Marcy were sick to death of me nit-picking every little thing about him. I wondered how I even managed to maintain any friendships. There were no “chill pills” in the general vicinity, but I could grab a sandwich or something.
There was a little café a few blocks away that I had been wanting to try. I marched over there, fantasizing about crushing “Original Cindy” under my booted heel. The place was small and cozy with only two other patrons, a lone woman reading a romance novel and a man sipping a craft beer and picking at a salad. I ordered water and a roast beef sandwich and sat across from the young man. His eyes glanced upwards and stopped as he looked me over.