“Small world, fancy seeing you here! How was the rest of your day, good?” I nod, glad she asked a yes/no question. “Excellent, mine, too. Well, sort of. I had to give an update at the annual general meeting for my department, and I swear, time moved like a tortoise wading through treacle, but at least it’s all over and done with until next year. So this is the longest period of time between now and when I have to do it all again, so it’s time to celebrate!” She holds up the chocolate Baileys from her basket before peering into mine. “Ooh, let me guess: cheese on toast for dunking into tomato soup?”Tomah-to. The way she says it sounds so…nice. I nod at her. “Great combination. Doyou like spicy food? Pepper on your cheese toastie, that kind of thing?” She looks me square in the eye, and I nod again, almost winded by how rapidly she talks. “Come with me.”
Her hand tugs on the crook of my arm, and I feel her touch like a brand even through my leather jacket. I keep pace with her quick, light step, wondering what she’s up to, and I can’t seem to help just watching her face as she squints and bites her lip, looking for the right aisle. “Here we go…”
I try, and fail, not to enjoy the way her ass sways in that dress as she turns us down one row and power walks ahead to the correct shelf. We’re in the aisle with the herbs and spice jars, and she trails one finger along the small shaker bottles until she finds what she’s looking for.
“OK, so,” she says, handing me a small bottle of a red and black pepper mix, “sprinkle some of this on your cheese before you sling it under the grill. It’s a total upgrade, like…” She starts gesturing with her hands in excitement as she talks, “like playing a Bösendorfer grand piano after years of playing the old school keyboards. Nothing wrong with the keyboard, but the Bösendorfer was just…shiveringlygood. This is the pepper equivalent of that. Trust me.”
Fine by me, if oddly specific. I’ll take any recommendation from her.Thank you,I sign to her, and add it to my basket.
“Oh - was that ‘thank you?” she asks. I give her a thumbs up. “Oh, OK. That’s very similar to what it looks like inBSL.” She mimics the sign and then nods, as though getting it straight in her head. Her eyes light up again. “Show me some more? How would I sign ‘tomato soup with cheese on toast’?” She’s in learning mode, laser focus and eagerness mixed together in one gorgeous face.
I laugh through my nose and show her the signs she asked for. She watches my hands intently and copies me twice, getting it perfectly right both times.
“Got it. Thanks!” She indicates her own basket. “I’m making a chicken and mooli curry tonight,” she says, holding up what looks like an overgrown white carrot. She grins. “What’s the sign for ‘mooli’?”
I give her a comic shrug, making her laugh. Wow, I like making her laugh. “Well, I suppose…” She spells outM-O-O-L-Iin quick, confident hand spelling like she does it every day. I give her another thumbs up of agreement, and how did this happen?
How am I having an easy conversation with a woman I’m attracted to in a supermarket when I can’t make a sound and she doesn’t know much of my language?
It’s her, I realize. She’s been so deft, chatting away and skilfully including me with yes/no questions I can actually answer, and made it all so easy that I almost feel…normal.
And knowing that sets me off. Although something in my chest is glowing, my skin suddenly feels cold and my throat goes tight.
Shiveringly good…
I need to leave now.
“Well, thanks for the impromptu lesson,” she says brightly, like she’s psychic or something, “but I should probably head off now. Curry from scratch plus essay marking equals one very busy Liaden!” She looks me up and down, and I can’t make out the expression in those blue eyes. I think perhaps I’m scared to. Because if it’s what I think it is, I want it. I wanther. And her liking me back in that way meansstuff happening. And it can’t.
I justcan’t.
“See you next week,” she says with a cute little wave, which I manage to return. I hope she didn’t see my fingers are starting to shake. Ah, shit. Panic attack imminent. As she turns, the magazine I was curious about slips out of her basket and falls with athwackonto the floor. It’s a copy ofExtra!, a shittyNational Enquirer style magazine full of obviously made up stories about celebrities andMy Godmother’s Boss’s Assistant Is Married to the Ghost of Elvisstyle headlines. Nowthat’sunexpected. She giggles, and places a finger to her lips. “Shh. My guilty pleasure. Don’t tell.”
I make the zip motion along my mouth, and she laughs, before walking towards the frozen food section.
I want to be at home. Now. Right now. My legs are shaking and I just need to be alone.
Go.
I rush through self-service like I’m running late for something, bagging everything clumsily and tapping my debit card on the reader with fingers I can’t really feel anymore. Leaving my receipt behind, I grab everything and go, the fresh, cold air outside soothing me a tiny bit. I get so sweaty when I have anxiety attacks. Even so, I damn near run home. If I can just get inside my apartment, where I feel safe, I might be able to chase off the worst of it.
He’s not behind you. He’s dead. He’s nowhere. His brother flushed his ashes down the john, and you are safe from him forever. He’s never coming back. You’re fine.
The streets are a blur, I’m starting to see spots, and my throat is dry and tight. I need water. I need to be at home, on my sofa, chugging a glass of water to ease the sandpapery feeling in my messed up throat…
With no clear memory of how I got there, I’m struggling with my key to unlock my front door. Now I’m leaning against the door on the inside, wheezing and closing my eyes in relief, trying to will the dizziness away. These four walls make me feel as safe as it’s possible for me to feel, and I soak in the home vibe eagerly.
I guess in my blind panic I dropped my shopping on the floor, and the soup can has rolled away by the door. Once I’ve taken a few deep, steadying breaths, I stoop down to pick it up,grimacing when I see my reflection in the mirror in front of me, the one I try to ignore every morning before work.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the sight of this pale, sweaty thing I see in front of me. This waste of life.
I don’t recognize myself.
This happens sometimes. In the abstract Iknowthat’s me in the mirror, because it has to be; it moves when I move.But I don’t feel any real connection to the image whatsoever. I look nothing like the guy I remember from before Prom, the kid with the secure, cocky smile and permanently tanned skin from all the time he spent outdoors. Every day after school he’d run track, he’d skateboard, he’d stroll around the French Quarter like he had all the time in the world. He’d take tourists on kayak tours of Manchac Swamp in the summer, and would have a ball talking easily to them all. Strangers were just friends he hadn’t met yet, and life was for fun, filled with great people and new experiences just waiting for him to get around to them.
This dude looking back at me from the mirror hasn’t had a tan in years, even though he lives by the ocean. His skin is prison gray, sweaty, and with that fucking scar on his neck like someone ripped chunks out of him and then slapped them back on wetly and carelessly. Something he has to wear on the outside to announce to everyone that here be monsters. You can’t trust this one, folks. There’s awful knowledge in his expression: that the universe is cruel, that humanity has a cold black hole at their collective heart, and that life is an endurance test he shouldn’t win because he doesn’t deserve to. Such dull, bleak eyes. So dead. Like he would have been, if it hadn’t been for the unwanted intervention of a classmate who escaped unharmed against all the odds, a SWAT team invasion, and the efforts of the paramedics to save him. Things he can’t bring himself to be grateful for.
No. This guy should have just died with the others. With the woman and unborn baby who are dead because of his clumsiness and stupidity. And now…look at what’s left of him. A faint, washed out shadow of who he was, a shadow holding tons of weight bearing down on the people he loves. A burden, deserving of nothing, of none of that love from them. If only he could fade away, just like that shadow. How much better would their lives be?
