Meet Cute Monday #3

Libby x Pete - a meet cute on aisle 3

At the risk of sounding like a capitalism propagandist or just a Very Sad Person, I must admit: The Target off New Brighton Boulevard is my happy place. 

On my lunch breaks. After work. On the way to work, to get a Brown Sugar Oatmilk Shaken Espresso from the Starbucks inside. 

I am a creature of habit, a lover of routine, a happy hamster on a wheel in which all roads lead to the Target off New Brighton Boulevard. 

I’ve seen all of the memes about walking into Target with a list of three items and leaving with a full cart and an empty bank account. 

But the good thing about going to Target as often as I do is that it’s more about the experience than it is about the shopping itself. 

The appeal of actually purchasing items wanes fairly quickly. As such, on most of these trips, I don’t buy a single thing (overpriced latte aside). I merely stroll through the aisles, discovering what’s new. It’s like the adult version of those “Spot the Difference” games I used to play as a kid.

There’s a system to my exploration, and that system has been carefully refined over the past year.

I’ve learned that this specific Target usually restocks merchandise two to three times a week — generally on Mondays and Thursdays. As a result, these days are my favorite. Naturally. 

I’ve learned the names of most of the staff and have built decent rapport with many of them. Todd at Customer Service and I have the same taste in books, so I see him for recommendations. Every other week, barista Leah hands me a pumpkin muffin, “on the house,” to accompany my latte. My favorite cashier, Melissa, has three kids who are a pain in her ass but also her pride and joy — she let them decorate the lanyard that holds her nametag and it’s covered in abstract doodles. “God love ‘em,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she can’t keep the smile from her face when she speaks of them and their hijinks. 

I’m very lonely — though, at this point, I doubt I even needed to tell you that. 

Minneapolis is colder than I imagined it would be. 

The only memories I have in this city are ones made with Cam, and he himself is only a memory to me now. He made sure of that.

I resent myself for following him here.

I resent him for deserting me in a new place within three months of moving here, with not a single friend to my name.

I resent “Claire in accounting” for being pretty or funny or kind or whatever enough to make Cam lose interest in me.

I resent the entire concept of romantic relationships, and the patriarchy, and the ever-rising price of goods and services for making it nearly impossible to imagine existence without codependency, a life in which thriving independence is attainable. I’m just scraping by. 

But, at least there’s Target. 

I’m currently making my way through one of my favorite sections of the store: outdoor rugs and furniture. It would appear that rattan is very en vogue, as well as white cushions and white-washed wood. The very idea of having a proper lawn in which I could house this furniture is so distant it’s barely even a dream — yet I find myself debating the practicality of this white furniture. The light fabrics and wood seem ill-advised in an outdoor space. The inevitable dirtiness and water damage feel like reason enough to go with darker tones, but I guess trends do not exist to be practical; they exist to make Target (and other stores like it) more money. 

I’m running my hands along the textured surface of a jute rug (also in a way-too-light shade of tan) when someone joins me in aisle 19. I can’t help but notice that the someone in question is a someone of the Very Attractive male variety. 

He runs his fingers through the mop of dark, curly hair on his head, and in the same motion, brings his hand down to scratch his trimmed beard. The messiness of his hair combined with the neatness of his beard borders on comical — a juxtaposition that screams “today did not go as planned!” The deep sigh he lets out while staring at the collection of aesthetically-pleasing birdhouses is further proof of the fact that even a fresh restock is not enough to redeem this Monday for him. 

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and I quickly look away, cheeks flushing. Apparently, in the four months since Cam left me I’ve devolved to having the social decorum of a third-grader and have taken to staring at strangers in public. The remembered flashes of things like casually chatting people up in bars, getting excited about the prospect of a party, and making friends with strangers in the bathroom seem so distant they might as well be someone else’s memories now. When did I become so boring? So bored? 

I begin walking toward the end of the aisle, making a deliberate effort to appear engrossed in welcome mats as I do.

“Excuse me?” A voice that can only belong to Attractive Someone comes from behind me. “Do you work here?” 

I stop and peer down at my sweater. It’s red. Of course it is. Rookie mistake. You’d think it was my first (rather than my three-hundredth) time in a Target. 

I turn to face him again. “I don’t. I just…own this sweater.” Smooth. 

The furrow in his brow deepens. “Sorry.” He turns back to the birdhouses, and I turn back to leave the aisle, assuming this brief interaction is over with. But then, again, his voice comes from behind me. 

“This is a longshot,” he says, clearing his throat a bit. “But are you, by any chance, a birdhouse enthusiast?” 

I turn back toward him again, and he continues. “You’re not at all obligated to help me, considering the fact that you don’t work here. But I could use some objective eyes.” 

“I don’t know if I’d consider myself a birdhouse enthusiast,” I say. “But a bird did poop on me once, so I think I’m still qualified.” God, I’m rusty. My cheeks turn more red than my Target-red sweater. 

He coughs out a laugh. “Right.” 

I step closer to him and look at the birdhouses. There are only a few options, and only two of them are new additions since the last time I was in this aisle. 

“It’s for my grandmother,” he explains. “She’s in Europe for the winter and I’m taking care of her house while she’s gone. She randomly called me an hour ago with an urgent request to set up a birdhouse so her ‘friends’ don’t freeze, but somehow misplaced her old one? I don’t understand how that’s even possible, but here I am.” He gestures vaguely to the merchandise in front of us. 

“First of all,” I say, daring to look up at him for a moment, “you have a very fancy grandma. Europe for the winter? What a dream.” 

He nods, and several curls flop around in the process. He pushes them back. “She’s a regular Diane.” 

I narrow my eyes. “Lane or Keaton?”

“Have your pick. Either way, she thrives in a coastal town, wearing shades of pastel, and gazing warmly into the middle distance while delicately swirling a glass of chilled sauvignon blanc.” 

I laugh, and the sensation feels weird in my throat. I haven’t laughed in a long time. It’s not the kind of thing you do when you’re alone. Even the funniest shows rarely elicit a true LOL, lmao, HAHAHA reaction when you’re watching by your lonesome. 

I clear my throat and turn back toward the birdhouses. “Okay, so, considering the fact that warmth is our primary goal here, I think I’d eliminate these guys.” I gesture toward the new additions to the birdhouse merchandising selection. They’re designed in that same light wood, trendy aesthetic that’s spreading through the aisle, item by item. It’s the vibe of summers in Hawaii, not late fall in Minneapolis — who are they kidding? 

He nods and shifts ever so slightly toward the rest of the options. “Too trendy anyway.” 

“You never know,” I shrug. “Your grandma could moonlight as an Instagram home and garden influencer. She winters in Europe, after all.”

“True,” he concedes. “I wouldn’t put it past her. She does have an impressive collection of hats.” 

Todd from customer service enters the aisle, clearly on a mission. “Oh, hey, Libby,” he says when he spots me. “Have you happened to see the new jute rug that just came in? A customer wants an exchange.” 

I point toward the rug. “Yep, that one.” 

“You’re the best,” he says, grabbing the rug and hefting it up onto his shoulder, then leaving as quickly as he appeared. 

I turn back to the birdhouses, and the task at hand. 

“I thought you said you didn’t work here?” Attractive Someone says. “That you just…own that sweater?” 

I glance up to see him staring at me with the most confused look on his face. Rightfully so. This is admittedly quite bizarre. 

“I don’t work here,” I say, shaking my head. “I just…come here often.” 

He raises his eyebrow, while still somehow managing to maintain the seemingly ever-present furrow. I can tell he wants to know more, but then remembers that we are nothing more than strangers standing in the outdoor rugs and furniture aisle at the Target off New Brighton Boulevard and thinks better of it. “Weird. I was going to make a ‘you come here often?’ joke to start the conversation but decided against it. Now I’m kicking myself.” 

“Probably would’ve been a bit too on the nose anyway,” I say. I gesture back to the birdhouses again to get us back on track. The sooner this interaction ends, the sooner I can escape the embarrassment of the first hot person I’ve interacted with in months discovering that I basically live in this Target. “Shall we?” 

He nods. “Right.” 

I point to the one that’s the largest. It’s unfinished wood, completely plain, but infinitely more spacious than the others. “This one has the most room for adding warm things like little towels and blankets and whatnot inside, to keep the birds warm. It’s plain, but that’s an opportunity.” 

“An opportunity,” he repeats, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels a bit. 

“Yeah,” I shrug. 

He turns to face me, taking one hand out of his pocket and extending it toward me. “I’m Pete,” he says. 

I look at his hand, then back up at his face, confused. Are we doing this? His warm brown eyes are firmly fixed on mine, and he juts his chin out a bit, as if to say, Yes, we’re doing this. Shake my hand, you weirdo. It’s not that serious. 

So I do. I can’t make eye contact with him when I do it, though — again, I’m rusty here — so instead I stare at the place where his large, tanned, hairy hand swallows up my tiny, freckled, pale one. We exchange one firm shake. An up-down-up. Professional. Sterile. “I’m —” 

“Libby,” he finishes for me. He adds: “Libby who definitely does not work at Target, but is on a first-name basis with employees and somehow knows where the merchandise is better than them.”  

“Exactly,” I say, and when I drag my eyes up to meet his again, I can tell that there’s laughter there — the with me, not at me kind — and it makes me smile the first genuine smile I’ve smiled in months, probably. 

“So, Libby-who-doesn’t-work here,” he says, that hand returning to his pocket, but the grin still planted firmly on his face. “Do you come here often?”