A milkman (or more accurately, milkboy—he had a bright orange faux-hawk and the voice of a preteen) rang my doorbell this evening.  I was in the middle of dinner (which included a glass of wine) and was severely red in the face so I didn’t really feel like talking to any strangers at the moment.  He started his spiel in Japanese when I interrupted him: “Do you speak English?”

Instead of running away petrified, he actually tried to talk to me!

Milkboy: “Eh….uh….ah….miruku?”

Genie: “Yes, milk?”

Milkboy: “Ah! Hai! Miruku, eh-to…mmmm…takuhai?”

At this point I make a face like “as if I know what ‘takuhai’ means?!” (Which I secretly do…”home delivery”)

But he continues trying to make me comprehend what he’s trying to sell. (I’m impressed!)

He mimes an imaginary box filled with bottles of milk and makes like he’s a delivery man, carrying it to my doorstep:

Genie: “Yes! Milk delivery!”

Milkboy: “Hai! Yes! Miruku dereeburee!!”

Genie: “No thank you.” Closes door.

Sorry, Milkboy.  End of our evening game of charades.