from the hospital—Officer Sharpe, I think. The one who seemed determined to keep grilling me until I cracked.
He’s one of the last men on Planet Earth I feel like talking to right now. I can still remember his searing gaze from the hospital, dancing up and down me, looking for answers I was both unwilling and unable to give.
I just want to get my goods and get outta here, ASAP. I turn my cart around to leave the aisle at the opposite end from the young cop, but when I do, I see another unwelcome sight.
There’s a man half-heartedly picking through some canned goods, and saying he looks “unfriendly” is the understatement of the year. He’s a walking D.A.R.E. commercial: hoodie pulled low over his face, dark bangs hanging in front of his eyes. Between that and the dark sunglasses he’s wearing despite the fact that we’re indoors, I can’t make out any identifying features on his face at all.
Either he’s a rock star trying to do his grocery shopping in peace, or he’s someone who really does not want to be identifiable. I shudder. The guy is radiating with bad vibes, like a nuclear reactor on the brink of collapse.
Everything about him—his clothes, his posture, the twitchiness of his hands and side-to-side glances—says Do Not Touch; Clear the Area. All the alert systems in my body go off at once.
Two men I don’t want to talk to? Time for me to evacuate the scene.
But which way to go? I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.
I decide on the lesser of two evils and spin around one more time, passing by the police officer and his family. I keep my head down and pretend to be fascinated by muffin mixes on the opposite shelves as I push past the tired Mrs. Sharpe and her screaming kids.
Just before I get out of this suddenly claustrophobic aisle from hell, I glance over my shoulder one last time.
The hoodie man is gone.
I heave a deep sigh of relief. “Woah there, nelly,” I say to myself under my breath as I head for the registers at the highest socially acceptable speed. “It’s just some Joe Schmo looking for the candy aisle. No need to get all frazzled.”
I keep repeating it like a mantra, even though I really don’t believe a word I’m saying. Way too much heinous stuff has gone down in my world in the last little while to not interpret this as yet another bad omen.
But he’s gone, and no matter how much I keep looking around, head on a swivel, he doesn’t reappear. Well, thank God for small favors, I guess.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should be prescribed something to calm me down. Lately, everything’s been putting me on edge. It wouldn’t hurt just to get away from this place, go on vacation, and pretend my worries don’t exist.
Instead, I head to the self-checkout registers and ring up everything that I bought for dinner for Dad and me.
I keep my head down while I’m ringing myself up, too. Self-checkout is a blessing—the less human interaction in my life right now, the better. I’m at least partially terrified that if someone asks me how I’m doing, I might actually break down and tell them the truth, which would be a horrific outcome for all parties involved.
This—poking buttons on a screen and not having to say a word to any living soul—is much, much better for my present state of mind, which seems lately to be wavering between ‘Weary’ and ‘On the Verge of a Full Freaking Meltdown.’
I’m finishing up bagging the last of my things and contemplating the technological marvels of the modern age, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’d just been waxing prolific about how nice it was to not have to talk to anybody on my way out of here, so of course irony has to rear its ugly head. I put on my best resting bitch face and turn to see who needs my attention.
The man who tapped me is tall and broad, with a squashed nose like someone who’s caught a few punches directly on the shnozz in his lifetime.
Actually, everything about this guy screams ‘fighter,’ from the scars on his outstretched hand to the inky tendrils of tattoos peeking out from his shirt collar. His face is stubbled, almost dirty-looking, and his teeth are cracked and yellowed. His clothes—workman’s overalls, along with steel-toed boots—are marked with use, age, and