My Future Whatever

My sister and I are driving downtown. We've just gone and eaten some really delicious crepes for brunch, and now we're on our way to the paper store. I adore paper. If I wouldn't become dirt poor, I would open up my own paperie. Joelle's Paperie. Or Kokomo's Paperie (Kokomo is the nickname my mom sometimes calls me). So we're in the car, driving, right?

And then we're stopped at an intersection by the mall, and I see the backside of a really attractive man on the sidewalk. He's got a wheelie cart, like the ones people sell hot dogs out of, only there isn't a hot dog or snow cone in sight. He's talking to a woman who is clearly older than him. I'm jealous. He's got on faded jeans and even though I can only see the side of his face, I know he is beautiful. And he's got a bit of facial hair, but I can look past that. He's probably about 26 or 27.

I point him out to my sister and she informs me that he's been there awhile. Or maybe not him, specifically, but that she's seen that cart parked there several times. I try to figure out what he sells, because the woman isn't holding anything. I spot a red cooler underneath the cart. I use my super 20/20 vision and zoom in on the counter of the cart, whereupon I spot a jar of peanut butter, Nutella (mmmmm), and a bear of honey. I start to dialogue with my sister about what he might be selling.

 "Maybe it's crepes," I guess. Because you know, we've just come from eating crepes. And Nutella crepes are delicious.
"Maybe waffles," my sister ventures.
Because clearly it's some sort of carbohydrate, because all of those toppings go on bread. Bagels just seem so lame. Like, why buy a bagel off of a street cart when you can buy a bag of them in the grocery store?
"Did you see how hot he was?" I ask Jess.
"Yes, partially. And he owns his own business." If you could count a wheelie cart as your own business. "Maybe you could marry him," my sister finishes.
I ponder a bit, thinking.

"This is what I could do. Since he had nothing on display, and we have no idea what he sells, I could walk up to him and say 'Can I have one, with everything on it?" We both laugh a bit.
"Did you see anything else?" my sister asks.
"No, nothing except peanut butter, Nutella, and honey." I pause, thinking. I turn to look at Jess, who is driving. "I've got it!" I say. "I know. He must sell toast. He's a toast vendor."
She looks at me and we both giggle. But honestly, it makes sense. You put peanut butter on toast. You put honey on toast. And most deliciously, you put Nutella on toast.

So the toast guy is going to be my future husband. Or whatever.