The Price is Right
I was standing at my local coffee place this morning, staring at possibly the finest-looking woman in North America. She was in line before me and she was quite striking: over six feet tall, brown hair cut perfectly with subtle shades of red, beautiful skin that glowed seductively beneath the morning sun, deliciously full lips and legs that went on for miles and miles. A real head-turner and believe me, heads were turning.
It was then that I noticed that her business suit still had the price tag on it, protruding and resting quite comfortably on her shapely behind. I stared at it again. Yep, there was no mistaking it: $272 and a bar code. So what to do now? If I don't tell her, she could go to her meeting and be embarrassed by a co-worker or, worse, a superior. If I do tell her, its an awkward conversation, I may potentially have to explain why I was staring at her ass and if I run into her again, she's going to avoid me like the plague.
I thought long and hard. Beads of sweat started appearing on my forehead (but that could have been because it was close to 92 today). I took off my sunglasses and gave the price tag one last look, in the hope that it may offer some kind of hithero unseen way out of this moral dilema. She began to walk away, after getting her half and half and wholewheat bagel. It was now or never.
A voice cut through my indecision; it was Sam, the coffee man:
"Hey, sweetheart. Sold, at that price!" he leeered, as he pointed at her tag. She turned around, looked at where he was pointing, smiled sheepishly before tucking it in and hurrying off down the road, doubtless towards the nearest ladies'.
Sam looked at me, grinning and bobbing his head. Clearly, his day had been made. "What'll it be, champ?"
"Black, no sugar" I muttered to my thunder-stealer. "Champ."