"I've actually already been shown around. This is my fourth day here, ya know."

God he's so oblivious he hasn't even noticed me working here yet? Well that's fine because that goes for the both of us! I mean, I don't know how he didn't notice me. I've passed by a few mirrors here and I gotta say, I look quite fabulous.

"But — but then why are we — why did you — ?"

Oh look, he's a stuttering Stanley.

"I just didn't want to have to clean up those boxes. Did you see that mess?"

He carried a look of disbelief as we wandered on. It seems he's leading us towards the Bedding department. I'd already seen it before but boy oh boy, what's this?

There’s a dude carrying some pillows around. He looks like a cross between the Prince of Persia and Ryan Reynold — holy macaroni!! — and we’re walking towards him! I can barely stand still, as I appear to have the jitters now — which really looks like I have to pee — but I do my best to smile.

I gush at him and his manly beauty, so much so that when he reaches out to shake my hand, I dart mine out like a snake striking. It surprises him — it surprises me!! — and he is almost able to pull away in time.

Almost.

"I'm Emma! Super pleased to meet you!" I practically screamed in his face, but he smiled anyway. That is, until the dribbles of spit I slew out at the price of every 'P' in my sentence smacked him in the face. Maybe even the lips.

Is that an indirect kiss?

"I'm so sorry!" I suddenly blurt out, and my voice sounds like I'm being fast forwarded. "I have this condition where I spazz out sometimes." Welp, that's a lie, but he's starting to look at me less judgementally now.

Success!

"Hi Emma. I'm Fitz."

Ohhh, his voice pours over me like honey, and suddenly I'm imagining myself covered in honey and it actually isn't so pleasant. I feel like I can't breathe, and that can lead to panic, so I shut Imagination Station down for the moment and try to focus.

"Fitz!? What a cool name!" I shriek. I hate myself right now but I can’t turn away. My eyes are now settling on them phat lips and when he speaks, they move and quiver and suddenly my frame of view is bursting with flowers and sparkles and I think I’m passing out —

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.