Women of Discriminating Taste

The sparks began flying through the chip aisle immediately,  as the stranger bent over to grab a bag of Ruffles and our eyes met. “Love those ridges, huh?” I said. She just smiled a little and said, “Yep.”
    There was a silence, and I knew, as I watched her try to decide between sour cream & onion and barbecue, I hadn’t much time. “Fucking bastards,” I exclaimed, flailing my arms as I do.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Oh nothing,” I said. “They don’t have any goldfish crackers.”
    “They’re right there,” she said, pointing over my shoulder.
    “Oh,” I said. “Nice eyes.”
    “Uh, thanks,” she said.
    “Are you a fan?”
    “Of what?”
    “Goldfish.”
    “The animal or the cracker?”
    “Either one.”
    The beautiful stranger stared at me, perplexed, and began to walk away.
    “Wait,” I blurted. “I have to show you something.”
    “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I bet... What is it your snake? Or your cucumber? How about the old dick-in-the-pizza-box trick?”
    “No,” I said, pausing for effect. “It’s my sasquatch paw.”
    Her eyes grew wide as I produced the withered paw from my pocket.
    “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “It’s grotesque and strangely erotic.”
    As she ran her fingers over each finger, she bit her lip. “What do you say we get out of here,” she said. “Maybe go to my place and have some wine.”
    “And goldfish?”
    “And goldfish.”
    We hurried to the express line and, after a moment, a man in a zookeeper’s outfit filed in behind us. “Whatcha got there son,” the man said.
    “It’s my sasquatch paw,” I said. “I bought it from some guy in a Wendy’s parking lot.”
    “Hmmm--nice paw,” he said, caressing the lines of the palm with easy, knowing strokes. “But that’s no sasquatch paw--that’s your run-of-the-mill gorilla paw.” He cut a glance at me and, then, the beautiful stranger. “Yessiree, pure, one-hundred percent gorilla-paw.”
    The beautiful stranger’s eyes drew narrow. “You fucking asshole,” she said. “You’re just like all the rest.”
    She stomped out crying, leaving her Ruffles on the counter. The zookeeper handed me my sasquatch paw, and I stuffed it back in my pocket. “It’s still a pretty nice paw, son,” he said. I thanked him and walked out in time to see the Beautiful Stranger’s taillights disappearing into the foggy ether. Well, I thought to myself on the long walk home, when a girl wants sasquatch paw, gorilla paw just won’t do.