where the writers are
Our Cashier, the Artist

We bought a few things at the World Market last night (including a quite hideous little bowl sort of shaped like a gray elephant in which my wife can put her keys so she doesn't lose them, because she does). Our cashier was Matthew.

Matthew interested me. About six two, he was very slender, maybe one sixty with perhaps a BMI of 10 - 12%, white with pink hues, and clean shaven with an austere, rectangular face, a shoebox upright on its end. No stubble shadowed his face. He wore silver rim squared glasses and a tight heather sweater over a crisp white Oxford shirt. The sweater's sleeves were slid halfway up his narrow arms, allowing him to expose the white shirt's cuffs and roll them up. 

What started me considering Matthew was his watchband. He wore a fat, anachronistic brown leather watchband, like I wore in the early seventies. That led me to observe the rest of him, finishing with his hair, which ended up most striking of all. Brown, thick, but neat, trim on the sides without tapering to his head's shape, his bangs were longer and fell forward whenever he leaned. He would then brush it back with long fingers with manicured, shiny nails.

Metrosexual, I thought, with a little jealousy that he had it all together. I didn't think Matthew's career choice was cashier and wanted to ask him but didn't. Artist, dancer, and actor were stamped all over him in my mind's stereotype stamping machine.

I mentioned him to my wife after we left and described him.

"I didn't notice him," she replied. "I was worried about our coupon."