As I walk out of the restroom I notice my manager approaching me, so I brace myself for some reference to bodily functions but he just cocks his thumb towards the front of the store and says “We need somebody to ring.”  Which means I’ll be standing at the counter waiting on customers the rest of the night, while he and Janet smoke cigarettes out behind the store and bullshit.  I grab my coffee and trudge to the register.

                The local college has resumed classes and there is an endless parade of underage and barely legal students trying to buy alcohol. I card one after another and have to deny half. After the last girl, an eighty-year old woman complains that I didn’t card her and I want to tell her what a shriveled, decrepit antique she is and that she hasn’t seen twenty one for the better part of a century.

                “Uh-oh. Don’t tell my manager I let you slip by. I’ll be out of a job,” I say instead, smiling like I mean it and making her blush ever so slightly. I hope she isn’t having a heart attack.

                I get to help a few people pick out wine, which is what I truly love. We speak for awhile about the type of wine they enjoy and I make suggestions. The last couple I assist are fond of the deep, inky reds of the real winemakers of Australia. These are the big, bold dry reds that I especially like and I point them toward Seduction, a blend of Cabernet, Merlot and Shiraz.

                “It’s almost black in the glass,” I tell them as they examine a bottle. The bell above the entrance rings and what I see there knocks every coherent thought from my mind. It’s a guy. He’s beautiful. He’s Asian and tall, thin but not sickly and he moves with a casual abandon into the store. He has the adorable spiky hair of an anime character with frosted tips. My heart speeds up. He’s wearing a little salmon colored t-shirt that just  covers his obviously muscular stomach above a pair of tight, slightly tatty jeans that ride low enough to accentuate perfectly formed hipbones. His black eyes meet mine for a split second and I feel something stir that shouldn’t be stirring at work. I suddenly realize that the woman in front of me has asked the same question twice and I force myself to look away from this beautiful creature to answer her.

                Minutes pass and the Asian boy continues to shop. I help other customers and make sales but always my eyes are drawn back to him. He stands so comfortably with his vintage leather jacket draped over one thin, olive-skinned forearm. I am pulled back to my job by a pair of college students obviously not old enough to buy that bottle of Mad Dog. As I take the bottles off the counter and send them out of the store, I feel the Asian guy looking at me. As soon as I look up he looks away. More customers come and go, and the boy is still browsing, glancing over at me and glancing away.

                He finally picks up a bottle of Seduction and looks as if he’s reading the label. I try to imagine his lips stained purple from that sublime elixir. He has been here over an hour and I finally realize if he wants to by that wine, I’m going to have to wait on him. I am going to have to ask this amazing being for his ID. I’ll be able to find out where he’s from, where he lives, maybe even what he’s doing later. It suddenly occurs to me I’ll also have to talk to him. My throat dries out instantly. I swallow and hear a click. So I take a sip of coffee, while I observe him over the top of the mug.

                He walks slowly up and down the aisles while I wait on more customers, carry wine out to cars and point them in the direction of the Bourbon section. He’s dragging this out so long. I can’t stand it. I’m going to walk over there and talk to him. I’ll ask him if I can help him find something. It won’t seem suspicious; we ask people that question all day. I’m just working up the courage when a fat lady decides she just has to have a pint of Nikolai now. I take her four dollars and twenty three cents (It always amazes me they aren’t ashamed to have the exact amount in hand), tell her to have a nice night (passed out drunk on the couch) and move around the counter. An elderly fellow intercepts me and I lose sight of the pretty Asian. This is maddening. I am listening to this little, old man bemoan the rise in the price of Manischewitz since 1942 and all I want to do is find the boy and talk to him. The old man takes his change and heads for the door, still complaining .

                When I turn back I find myself staring into almond eyes that seem to disappear as the young man smiles. I realize he has been waiting for us to be alone. There are no other customers that I can see or hear. The store is unusually silent. I try to sound witty and comfortable, but I’m not. I feel a thin layer of sweat break free of my pores.

                “Hel-lo. Howsitgoin?” I stammer. He nods and smiles.

                “Okay. Thank you,” he says as he lets out a faint puff of breath that might be a laugh and smells like ginger. He places the bottle of Seduction on the counter. I reach for it and brush his skin. Instantly I become aroused and thank fate for the counter I’m standing behind. I grip the bottle around the neck, wishing desperately that this wasn’t a bottle but the beautiful young man and we were anywhere but here. My pants feel increasingly tighter. I keep thinking of him as a boy because he’s so flawless and clean-shaven, but he holds himself with maturity and confidence. I decide I had better card him, just in case.

                “Do you have ID?” I ask, trying not to sound harsh. He looks at me, nods and smiles again.

                “Okay. Thank you,” he repeats. My stomach flips and I realize he can’t speak English. I try again just to make sure.

                “Can I see your identification?” This time he shakes his spiky head just a little and shrugs. “Driver’s license? Passport?” I can’t make him understand me. By law I can’t serve him now. If I ask for ID and the customer doesn’t have it, I cannot serve that person. Beautiful boy or not, I am having a serious moral dilemma. I should never have asked him in the first place. I should have sold him his bottle and sent him on his way. I still can; there’s no one here. I can still salvage this. No sooner do I think that than Dan comes whistling up from the back room. His three hour cigarette break is finally over.

                “I’m sorry. If you don’t have ID I can’t serve you,” I tell the boy as I pull the bottle off the counter, just as we are trained to do. The look on his face is painful. It’s as if I attacked him personally. His entire body seems to despair. “I’m sorry,” I repeat and he turns toward the door. I watch his back the whole way out.

                “You never say yer sorry.” It’s Dan. “Especially to those fuckers. If they can’t learn the language they shouldn’t oughtta be here. Look. The freak dropped somethin’.”

              Dan bends down, picks up a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Throw this out.” I look at it first. It’s a little scrap of paper with an address on it. That unbelievable creature was going to give me his address. I suddenly realize my other hand is still on the bottle caressing the length of it slowly. I pull my hand away quickly before Dan can see what I’m doing and decide what to do next.

                It’s finally the end of my shift. I’m standing in line with the same bottle that I refused to sell to the pretty Asian. I can’t believe I’m about to buy this wine and take it to a complete stranger’s address. He doesn’t even speak English. I’m not sure if I can make him understand my intentions. I’m not even sure what my intentions are.

 Buy With Pride