I kept my head lowered, focused on the faded linoleum flooring as I walked toward the back of the store. After grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, I turned toward the cashier. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar flash of pink.
My head snapped up.
That pink coat.
I remembered it clearly—it was impossible not to. The woman wearing it stood near the chips, turned away from me.
I could’ve turned around and walked out. I could’ve pretended I hadn’t seen her.
But I didn’t. My feet stayed rooted to the spot for some reason. She didn’t notice me—not at first—too focused on the bag of Cheetos in her hand. Her fingers toyed with the edge of it absently, her other hand clutching a crumpled twenty as if it were all she had left.
Maybe it was.
Her head dipped lower, her hair falling across her face as she bent toward the cooler. She opened the door and pulled out a tall can of beer.
She hesitated, holding it for a second before setting it in her basket. Her hand lingered on the cooler door, brushing against the glass as if she couldn’t quite pull herself away.
Then she grabbed a bottle of wine from the shelf.
Cheapwine.
Ten dollars, tops.
Judging by the tremble in her fingers as she adjusted the basket on her arm, she was barely keeping it together. The wine, the beer, the crumpled twenty.
Pathetic, I told myself. But the thought felt hollow, like a reflex instead of a conviction.
When she turned, her eyes landed on me. Recognition sparked, but it wasn’t the warm kind. She had that look—the one that probably got her whatever she wanted without her having to try. Big brown eyes framed by lashes so thick I wondered if they were real, paired with lips curved into the kind of half-smile that made me question my better judgment.
She was shorter than I realized, even in the heels. Barely came up to my shoulder. But the way she stood, with her shoulders back and her chin slightly tilted, made her seem taller. Confident. Or at least good at pretending.
Everything about her was deceptively soft. Her face was youthful: rounded cheeks and full lips, eyes dark enough to hide every thought but expressive enough to tell me she was annoyedI was watching. Her hair was long, dark, tumbling in loose waves down her back. The kind of hair that probably got tangled in everything.
Her body was something else entirely—curves that looked like they’d been drawn with intention and hips designed to sway, whether she meant them to or not. She was dressed simply in tight jeans and a shirt that fit her a little too well. An outfit intended to look effortless, but it never was.
She looked Latina, maybe Colombian, though I couldn’t be sure.
“You again,” she said, acknowledging me as if she were as caught off-guard as I was.
“Yeah,” I replied, not really knowing what else to say. I hadn’t expected to see her again, let alone in this part of the city.
“Pick one for me,” she said, glancing at the wine and the beer.
“Uh ...” I started, standing in front of the cooler. “Wine.”
“Which flavor?”
“Blackberry.”
“You have good taste,” she said, reaching her hand into the cooler to switch it out with the one she’d grabbed previously.
I didn’t have good taste—I didn’t even drink—but I did have a good memory. She’d been begging the clerk at that bodega for the same wine and a pack of smokes the last time I saw her.
Her voice, the desperation in it—it had stuck with me. Maybe because I hadn’t seen anyone beg like that before.
Or maybe because I’d been the reason she’d needed to, but I didn’t want to think about that.
“What about you? What’re you getting?” she asked.
