Someone(s) to Watch over Me

Last week, I did my laundry at the on-premises facility in my apartment complex, I'd neglected to switch out my clothes from the dryer and remembered only long after they were done. I returned to the machines to find my clothes in a neatly stacked, folded pile in my basket.

Yesterday, I stood in line behind a man with more groceries than reasonably fit into a single cart, also in tow was his son in a carrier. The toddler eyed me suspiciously, so I decided to prove I wasn't a threat by helping him take off his socks and find his piggies. The dad watched, amused at the farce of "lost toe-kies" and the three of us shared a chuckle.

I collapsed, exhausted on some grass by Mission Bay after a long walk/jog and had begun to snooze under the sun when a woman—also apparently worn out from a jog—hovered over me to inform me that I was "looking a little pink," and to head indoors before I got a sunburn. I really was looking quite rosy and I don't think I would've been very content with what would've been the outcome of that nap; a lobsteresque exterior.

My fruit-stand guys are endlessly patient with my comical Spanish. I haven't practiced conversation for some time and I find that the flow is good, but the terms are off. "¿Cuantos libres?," I ask "How many freedoms?" instead of "How many pounds" of fruit I'm looking to purchase. I had to ask about four times before I remembered how to say "plums," (ciruelas, if anyone's interested), and hilarity ensues as I answer "Yes." to either/or questions I thought were yes/no. The guys promise me fresh produce and Spanish lessons whenever I stop by and that they don't mind my practicing with them as it always results in a good laugh.
My library lady insists I come over for lunch sometime to chat, share a cup of tea, and look at her scrapbooks. Though I had some more youthful activities in mind for my social calendar, my 60-something friend is too sweet to resist.
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Flustered after being the cause of a not-so-smallish snafu at work, I ran to put some gas in my car, distractedly grabbed the pump and prepared to fill up when a man comes running up to me. Being in lone-woman-in-the-city-fending-for-herself mode, I prepared to key or claw in case the man intended to accost me in some manner. He puts his hand over mine on the pump and swiftly pulls it out of my tank. "What are you doing?," I asked, not so kindly. "Well," he responded, "unless your car takes diesel, I'd highly discourage using the green pump." I shudder to think what would have become of my darling little Honda if it weren't for this man, I told him he was a stud and thanked him profusely.