The Curious Tale of Mr. Kale


I placed the snacks on the conveyor belt as the pasta sauce and milk slipped awkwardly from my arms. When my sweet potato fell onto the belt on the other side of the plastic divider, the customer in line behind me said, “I think this is yours?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, taking it.

“Your healthy food is putting mine to shame,” he said with what I realized were traces of a British accent. I glanced behind me as the conveyor belt brought his potato chips, ground beef and Pellegrino water into view.

“Is that kale?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, now facing a man who was, yes, tall and handsome.

“Do you mind if I ask how you make it?” the man said.

Soon we were examining the benefits of kale chips, kale salad, kale à la mode, the history of kale, the future of kale. Until we reached the exit, where we introduced ourselves (“Sam,” he said) before continuing our chat outside. The awkward non-exchange of numbers weighed heavily in the breeze that lifted a strand of hair over my left eye (which I hoped would add to my allure).

“I’m in here all the time,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll see you here again.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to contain my amazement that this was all really happening.

Then I called Stephanie. “It happened! He’s tall. Accent. Cute. More than cute. But why didn’t he ask for my number?”


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