My Guy

I'm sort of in love with a retarded guy. I don't know why. This has been going on for almost ten years now. Works at the supermarket as a bagger. Slow guy. Good worker, apparently. Well liked by everyone at the HT. Tall gangly guy with prominent knobs for key parts of his skeleton--cheekbones, shoulder blades, elbows. Too many teeth in his mouth or else all the teeth in his mouth have moved up front. Dark, close-cropped hair. His lazy eye is what makes me think he's retarded--that and his 10+ years as a grocery bagger. Unfair. I may be drawing an invalid conclusion. I don't even know the guy. I know his name, but I'm not telling you. He's mine. Many have been the moments, while I stood behind my cart in checkout, that I imagined his skinny torso, slim hips, crane-like legs hairy as hell, undressed. He'd look good soaking wet, I sometimes think. In the movie of all this, I'd give the role of him to Ryan Gosling, though the Goz doesn't look anything like the guy, but he is the actor to convey on film his essence. I can imagine the clumsy pass my guy would make at me, given the right moment, slurred mmm's, and rrr's that roll around in his cheeks like a jawbreaker. Long mantis-like arms surrounding my shoulders. His hot, slightly damp retarded breath against my forehead. If we, by some chance, became a couple someday--unlikely, since he may well prefer women--or men his own age--I would let my guy keep his job. I would even drive him back and forth to work in my father's car--that is, grammatically, "back and forth to and from work." Evenings, he would stand up close behind me in the kitchen, while over our tiny stove I pour a jar of Ragu over steaming spaghetti, bought at the HT, aisle four. His arms around my waist, fingers locked atop my belt buckle. I inhale the garlicky vapor, he purrs like a pinwheel, I feel his hard cock against the base of my spine.