I was grocery shopping midday yesterday, filling my basket with fruits and dairy and other things available in vast, shimmering quantities here in the US (injudiciously forgetting that both Ian and I are leaving today; him for a meeting in Spokane, Spackle and me for a long weekend on Orcas), when I came upon a slightly disheveled, middle-aged blond man perusing the bulk snack foods.
"Foxy," I said to him, as I came to a stop in front of the dipped pretzels.
"Excuse me?" he asked, with some surprise.
"Your pants," I said, gesturing to his wrinkled, vulpini-printed lounge pants. "Foxy!"
"OH!" he said. "My last name means "fox", so I bought these. Actually," he went on, "my lawyer says my first name means fox, too . . ."
[His lawyer! Interesting!, I thought, noticing that he was missing his left-most incisor.]
"so I'm Fox Fox!"
"Indeed!" I said.
Wishing each other a nice day, we parted company, me moving on to produce; Fox Fox deciding on a snack and filling his bag.
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