Cross-town rivals

Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea!

I went to my local liquor store ("packy" as they say) today after work and was happy to see my favorite cute guy behind the counter when I walked in. He's cute, as I might have already mentioned, and also smart, as I have more than once seen him speak fluent Russian to some of the Russian summer workers that frequent our town during the warm months. He's also funny, and knows about stuff that I like knowing about, like wine and baseball.

We always exchange a few words over my latest inebriatory purchase, usually about whatever is the latest news in baseball. We both keep obsessively current, especially during the season, and he's just one of those guys that I always love talking to.

He's also a Red Sox fan.

Not unusual this close to Fenway, but what's less de rigeur is that I'm a Yankees fan. I'm also a native New Englander, but baseball never penetrated my consciousness until I moved to Syracuse, and I happened to fall in with a bunch of Yankees fans, and they introduced me to what is now an abiding passion of mine.

I tend to be quiet and serene about my Yankee-fanness, mostly because I honestly love the game of baseball. The Yankees just happened to be the team within closest striking distance when I fell in love with the game.

So this guy and I have this great relationship where we share information and insight on our respective teams, new prospects, latest scores. It's very casual and interesting and respectful and maybe the tiniest bit flirtatious, although sometimes other patrons look on aghast as he allows himself to be seen talking as equals with someone in a Yankees cap.

Today he told me he got another job, dammit. Saturday is his last day at the packy.

Now granted, ringing up sales of tequila and lottery tickets isn't what this Russian-spouting, stats-hoarding, young cute guy should be doing for the rest of his young cute life. So I'm happy for him that he got a respectable salaried job doing some foul thing like selling insurance or God-knows-what. I was sad, but I held it together long enough to shake his hand, flash him the peace sign, and wish him well after he handed me my change.

Then, just when I reached the door to the store, I flashed him my breasts, shouted "GO YANKEES!!!" at the top of my lungs, and sprinted to my car.

Quiet. Serene.