The Parking Lot

by. Maurice Blocker

“Hey, you.” The woman from across the street yelled, her eyes glistening with rage, her hair in a frizzy ponytail — the look of a hurried job. Margo turned just enough to see the woman walking, speedily, her direction. Margo swiveled around to face the angered woman, a Whole Foods bag in each hand, the bag on the right hitting her leg as she turned. “Stop fucking my husband!” The woman shouted from the middle of the parking lot — now just thirty feet away. Margo looked behind her — thinking the woman was talking to someone else. There was a lady and her two sons coming out of the Whole Foods as well as an old man and an interracial couple in their thirties. All of them were looking at her, as was the entirety of the Whole Foods parking lot. The woman had shouted loudly. Margo spun back around and felt a sting across her left cheek, “bitch,” the woman snarled as she brought her hand back. The slap echoed across the parking lot, it sounded of a short applause, a quick clap. Margo’s cheek colored itself a pink-ish red, but she managed to keep a firm grip on her grocery bags despite the slap’s heavy impact. “Stay away from my husband,” the woman said in a firm voice, her tone leading one to believe she has mothered no less than one child. Not knowing why Margo looked behind her again, the mother had her sons by the hands and was hurrying them to her car, the couple and old man stood watching, as did the newly grown crowd that had congregated at the sliding doors.

“Hey, cunt, I’m talking to you.” Margo turned and saw the anger in the woman’s face, the hurt hiding behind the rage in her eyes. “Sorry,” Margo uttered in a low, forgive me, breath. Not knowing what she’s sorry about, at last she checked she wasn’t sleeping with anyone other than her boyfriend Prescott, but it’s her nature to assume fault first. “That’s all you have to say for yourself whore, is you’re sorry? You tried to break up a happy family and you’re just, sorry?” What else could she be, Margo thought to herself. What else does she want from me? If asked the woman wouldn’t know how to respond either, she’s fueled on anger, not logic. “I’m sorry you’re so upset but to be honest with you, I think you’ve confused me with someone else. I am not sleeping with any married man.” Margo smiled, realized immediately that it’s not appropriate for the moment, and erased it from her face. The woman reached behind her with such aggression Margo thought she was going for a gun. She pulled out her cell and began swiping through it. She held up the phone inches from Margo’s nose. “You don’t know him?” The woman said with a sarcastic sneer.

Margo stared at the photo — stunned and shocked. The man was identical to her Prescott, but it can’t be her Prescott. Can’t be. “He looks…” Margo swallowed hard, unable to push the rest of her sentence out her mouth. “So, you do know him,” the woman said inching her phone closer to Margo’s nose. “Of course you know him, you’re fucking him.” “He looks like my boyfriend Prescott but it’s not him. He’s not married. I’d know, we’ve been together for five years.” “His name is Leeland. Prescott is his middle name. And we’ve been married for three years. So you’re lying whore.” “I’m not.” Margo placed her grocery bags on the ground and pulled her cell from the purse she has slung over her shoulder. “Look,” she said holding up her phone so the woman can see. “This was two days ago at lunch.” She swiped right. “This was last month.” She swiped again and again and again. “This was two years ago on our anniversary.” Leeland Prescott had a thick beard with long hair. He looked rugged and handsome. Viking-esque in his appearance. Different than he looked in his other pictures Margo showed the woman and the picture she showed Margo. In those photos Leeland Prescott was clean shaven with short slick black DiCaprio hair. A smile that echoed success and eyes as brown as an oak tree. He’d be a gent if he was British. He favored single colored button-ups. In the bearded photo he wore a checkered, flannel in design, button-up. The woman searched through her phone and showed a picture of Leeland Prescott with the exact styling Margo had produced a moment ago on her phone — down to the shirt. “He was going through his Game of Thrones phase.” The woman said smiling, arrogantly, as if she possessed the answer to a question Margo hadn’t known she’d been asked.

Margo stared at the photo perplexed, her mind not wanting to process the similarities in front of her eyes. “Sorry to have wasted your time. But I do not know your husband.” Margo tossed her cell back in her purse grabbed her groceries from off the ground took a step to her right and proceeded past the woman. “I found his other phone. You were all over it, calls, texts, photos. 240–333–1308.” Margo stood frozen, her back to the woman. “Ugh, I hate Linda. She’s always trying to put her work on me and then tells our boss it’s my fault when it’s not done after I refused to do her work. And Kevin keeps giving me that creepy look. Should I say something to him? I miss you so much when you’re out of town. Why do have to travel so often? Ahh, sad face and heart emoji.” The woman says, her voice pleasantly torturous. Margo turned and faced the woman, her eyes watery, hands shaking, her groceries jittering in their bags. The woman was looking down scrolling through a different phone than she had been holding earlier. “Oh, Margo, want a naughty girl.” The woman says with grin. “It hurts to sit but it’s worth it. I love it when you fuck my ass hard. It’s a wonderful pain. Smiley face emoji. You love emoji’s, but do you love them more than anal?” “Stop! Just stop.” Margo’s voice shook, her words rattling out of her mouth with anger. Her face red with embarrassment or shame or both. “This one’s my favorite. Come over, I want you to choke me with your dick then nut on these big soft tits.” The woman arched her eyebrows, examining, “nice tits, very impressive nips.” She held up the phone for Margo to get a look at her own breasts, her nipples hard, pointing like two thin erect penises.

The woman curled her mouth in an impressed manner. “Stop!” Margo yelled. “This is a good one. Prescott…” “Shut up, stop!” Margo screamed as she dropped her groceries and reached for the phone. The woman pulled it back. Tears ran down Margo’s face. She bent over and tried her best to keep her crying down to a low, inaudible, tone. “Don’t call or text my husband ever again. Find someone else’s dick to choke on and send your tits to. Try and make sure he’s not married, fucking cunt.” The woman stormed off. Margo stayed bent over hugging herself, one hand over her mouth trying to contain her sobbing. The old man comes over and places a gentle hand on her back and asks if she’s OK. The interracial couple gathers up the groceries that had fallen and rolled out of her bags. The girlfriend points to her boyfriend to get the box under the car. He grabs it and sees it’s a pregnancy test, the girlfriend shakes her head with a frown. “Young lady, your phone is ringing,” the old man’s voice is soothing, the perfect bedtime story reader. Margo pulls out her cell, the caller ID glowed… Prescott’s Work.