The bell above the 25/7's door had never sounded so ominous. Every time it chimed, Kimley's head would whip around with the frantic energy of a meerkat spotting a predator. He was a nervous wreck, and his attempt to "act normal" was a complete failure. He had already restocked the same row of instant noodles three times, creating a perfectly aligned, impenetrable wall of dehydrated ramen.
"Any sign of the 'Crimson Cursive-writer'?" Leo's voice crackled through the cheap earbud Kimley was trying to hide under his beanie.
"No," Kimley whispered back, pretending to inspect a can of beans. "And get off this channel, Leo. We're not secret agents."
"Speak for yourself, 'Agent Noodle Boy'. Eagle Eye is in position," Leo replied. Kimley risked a glance towards the chip aisle and saw Leo peeking out from behind a display of tortilla chips, a pair of his dad's binoculars pressed to his eyes. He was as inconspicuous as a flamingo in a flock of pigeons. Chloe, ever the professional, was calmly sitting in a booth by the window, reading a book and occasionally glancing up over the pages.
For an hour, the only customers were the usuals: a construction worker buying a jumbo energy drink, a woman buying lottery tickets, and Mrs. Higgins, whose poodle yapped at Kimley's ankles. None of them seemed like the secret-admirer type.
And then, the bell chimed again.
She walked in like a scene from a movie. She had soft, wavy brown hair, wore a cool band t-shirt, and had headphones slung around her neck. She was, to Kimley's romantically-starved brain, a perfect, ten-out-of-ten, limited-edition-shiny-holographic-card of a girl.
His heart did a little backflip. No way, he thought. Don't be an idiot.
The girl smiled politely at him as she passed, and Kimley's brain short-circuited. He tried to smile back but ended up with a pained-looking grimace.
She started browsing the aisles. Kimley watched her, his palms getting sweaty. She's just a customer. She's going to buy some gum and leave. This is not the person.
And then she turned down the snack cake aisle.
His earbud exploded with Leo's frantic whispering. "TARGET ACQUIRED! I REPEAT, TARGET HAS ENTERED THE SNACK CAKE ZONE! THIS IS NOT A DRILL, AGENT NOODLE BOY! DEPLOY THE RIZZ!"
"I don't have any rizz to deploy!" Kimley hissed under his breath.
"Just go talk to her! Compliment her... uh... shopping technique!" Leo suggested.
Kimley knew this was a terrible idea. His social skills were rusty at best and non-existent at worst. But he looked at the girl, who was now thoughtfully considering a box of cream-filled sponge cakes, and the romantic, idiotic part of his brain took over. This had to be her. A beautiful, cool girl had noticed his gentle soul. It was destiny.
Taking a deep breath, he marched towards the aisle, his footsteps feeling loud and clumsy. He arrived just as she was reaching for a box.
"You know," he began, and his voice came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat. "You know, those are a good choice. Solid cream-to-cake ratio."
The girl turned, a little surprised. "Oh. Yeah, I guess. I like them."
"Cool, cool," Kimley said, nodding way too much. He leaned against the shelf, aiming for casual but misjudging the distance. His elbow hit a tower of individually wrapped pies, sending a cascade of cherry and apple-flavored pastries tumbling to the floor. "Oh my days."
He scrambled to pick them up, his face burning a shade of red that matched the crimson envelope. "Sorry! Super sorry. The... the gravitational pull in this aisle is weird today."
She giggled. It was a nice sound. "It's fine, really."
This was it. His moment. He stood up, a slightly squished cherry pie in his hand. "My name's Kimley, by the way. I work here. In case you couldn't tell from the... the pie avalanche."
"I'm Maya," she said, her smile friendly.
"Maya," Kimley repeated, trying to sound smooth. "That's a nice name. It reminds me of... this cake. A-MAYA-zing."
The pun landed with the grace of a brick. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Leo was quiet in his ear.
Just as Maya opened her mouth to say something—probably to ask if he had suffered a recent head injury—a gentle voice cut in.
"Oh, what a mess, dearie."
Kimley turned. Standing there was a small, elderly woman with kind, crinkly eyes and a fluffy white perm. She was holding a shopping basket with a carton of milk and a bag of cat food. He recognized her immediately. She came in every Tuesday and Thursday.
"It's alright, Miss Beachy," Kimley said, his cheeks still on fire. "I've got it."
"You're such a good boy, Kimley," the old woman said, beaming at him. She then patted her purse. "I have something for you. I was hoping you'd be working."
From her handbag, she pulled out a single, crisp, crimson envelope.
Kimley froze. Maya looked from the envelope to Kimley, her expression a mixture of confusion and dawning realization. Leo's voice in his ear was a choked whisper. "Abort mission... Abort..."
Miss Beachy handed the envelope to him. "Just another little note to say thank you. You were so sweet last week when you helped me reach the prune juice on the top shelf. It's rare to see a young man take such pride in his work." She gestured to the perfectly stacked snack cakes. "It reminds me of my late husband, Arthur. He used to arrange his tools just so. A place for everything, and everything in its place."
Kimley took the letter. He looked at the sweet old woman, then at the thoroughly bewildered Maya, and then at the mess of pies at his feet. It all clicked into place with a resounding, humiliating thud.
The writer wasn't a cool, mysterious girl. It was Miss Beatrice Beachy, an 80-year-old widow who thought his shelf-stocking was a tribute to her late husband's organizational skills.
Maya, holding her box of sponge cakes, slowly began to back away. "Well... I'm just going to... pay for these now," she said, giving Kimley a wide berth as if he might suddenly start spouting more terrible puns.
"It was an honor to... be observed," Kimley mumbled weakly as she fled.
He looked down at the new envelope in his hand, then at the sweet, smiling face of Miss Beachy. The crushing embarrassment was slowly being replaced by a strange, gentle warmth. He hadn't found a secret girlfriend, but he had, apparently, made a secret friend.
"Thank you, Miss Beachy," he said, and for the first time, it was genuine. "This means a lot."