For Cake?

I was in the drug store the other day, looking for a variety of personal items (toothbrush, toothpaste, that sort of thing – nothing girlyicky, not that it matters.) They had moved the aisle for the depilatory creams and wax a while back, and despite my hour of aimless wandering, I still couldn’t find it. There was, of course, not a floor employee to be found anywhere, so I continued wandering until I saw a gentleman wearing a back support brace, as many inventory workers do. He was arranging the wine, facing it labels forward and bring the ones from the back to the front in an even line, so I figured he’s either obsessive compulsive, or he works there – and in either case, he might know where my hair-removing treasure awaits.

I asked him if he worked there, and he said he did, so I asked him where the depilatory cream was. The look I got in response indicated that he probably didn’t speak english very well, as he cocked his head and furrowed his brow. I repeated myself though, since he seemed genuinely interested in helping me.

“Do you know where the depilatory cream is? To take hair off?”

He replied after a long pause, very straight-faced and serious, “For cake?”

I walked away, trying not to audibly laugh, since the man was clearly trying to help me – but I also made a mental note never to eat cake with him.

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