Wednesday, June 17, 2009

The Story of Olga

It began with a night shift job at a large retail store. I won't say which, but the interior was red like hell and it was kinda like the movie Career Opportunities. After some time of adjustment and boredom, new hires were popping up like dandelions in summertime for the upcoming Christmas '06 season. Everyone ate lunch at the same time because we had the same hours. In the break room I first saw Olga, if that was her name.

Two women were eating together talking gibberish, or what I would later learn was Romanian. The two Romanian girls brought McDonald's Happy Meals to eat on their first day. They had a glee about them, like they were fresh off the boat to America. They pulled out Mario Kart happy toys. Olga pulled a Yoshi toy and seemed excited. I've seldom seen a sight so divine in my life.

Over time I saw her in the back room. She would back her butt up against the unloading belt to converse with her amiga before the real work began. Her khaki-covered bubble bottom forever beckoned one's wandering eyes to peer. Despite being endowed with a mesmerizing rump, she was also gifted with an innate grace and eloquence.

She was of stellar beauty. Pale and pink, with big, wide eyes — I wanted them. Her face was round and innocent. Her hair a gorgeous, deep brown with fine, silky strands; long, natural and combed. Her odd and bulbous nose added to the charm.

Her voice spoke with such a beauty it provoked a feeling of sadness towards the frailty of the universe equivalent to piercing a baby's heart with the Night Slasher's blade from Cobra. Aside from her native tongue, she also spoke some English and Spanish. The latter made my heart melt. Even my humble parents of indigent beginnings could fall under her spell. Sure, her crippled English was a fractured and endearing beauty, but the delightful surprise of hearing her passive and homely voice speak in Spanish caused even this Replicant's eyes to water.

Later, she noticed I was a boy and she a girl. We never spoke. From mere glances a reciprocating attraction was born. One fateful night, attempting to steer some carts from the back room to the front of the store, she placed her hand on mine to help me push. *Sniff.* Perhaps a subconscious gesture on her part. It was more than words could say, friendos.

Before I could read the writing on the walls she was gone. Her friend remained a while longer. She had a mole above her lip and I talked to her once while stocking yogurt after precious Olga had vanished. Someone mentioned she left to San Francisco.

Gone with her was my will to live. Each day the stress of never knowing adds another cinder block atop my soul. I can no longer seek love. I only see potential for loss. I could've sought her. I'd still be a coward if I saw her again.

I've not yet come across a girl that looks like Olga, though her impression began fading completely from my memory long ago. This image feels like her. Same hair, big eyes, round nose, pale, and with the red shirt work forced her to wear. *Sniff.*

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