Third person exercise

The young butcher just gave her the eye. Not the eye of round, the eye. The eye! Hey, did you notice the kids, she thinks. Did you notice the tummy roll left over from baby number two? Did you notice baby number two, sitting pretty in the cart, front and center? How about number one, pleading, "Mommy, mommy, can I have Lucky Charms? Can I have blue juice? Can I have this rocket?" And by the way, young butcher, she thinks, could you speak to your manager about putting foamy rockets in the grocery store? But wait, she thinks, and mind you this is all in her head, did the cute young, yes, young, exactly how young, I wonder, butcher just give me the eye?

And then it happens. This has been happening since she can remember. She doesn't want to offend, the librarian offering the book on starting an aquarium, the sales clerk offering the azure blue lycra gauchos, the guy in the doo-rag offering to marry her, as with all of them, she just says yes. Yes, I have a little glass bowl with three fancy goldfish, but why not aquarium care. Yes, I have post-partum thighs and tummy, but why not slip into some curve hugging number that reminds me of my third grade dance recital. Blue is my favorite color. Yes, you drink too much and lie about most everything, but yes, I'll marry you. So it is any surprise that she says yes to the eye? Yes, I need something. I'm just here for soy milk, but I'll have three pounds of your best meat. Wink, wink.