the blue moon made me fall in love with a customer named Quin Sheppard. QUIN SHEPPARD?! What kind of heaven did this guy fall from? He was tall and awkward and nervous about whether his desert boots looked okay. I pointed to the (exact same!) ones I happened to be wearing and said, “Yeah.” He asked me about where I got my glasses and I told him, but I stuttered because I was busy staring at his sunburnt cheeks and the tuft of chest hair peeking from the top of his shirt. He kept on looking outside because he parked at an expired meter across the street, but then got really embarrassed when he asked to wear out his shoes and if he could trash the ones he had on because there was a hole in the bottom and they weren’t fit to be donated to anyone, like we usually do. I held out our trash bin and he threw them in there and then I ran to the back and heaved and fluttered and ate a cookie.
He kind of looks like this guy from the photographer Stefano Marchionini's wonderful series La Lande des selves, except broader, taller, and slightly more professorial:
I need to make out with something, damn you full moon