Still Awakening
“…it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promises broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises…”
― Kate Chopin, The Awakening
Just as the sun was squeezing under the awning of the local home improvement store, a shadow emerged from the backlit frame and took shape. Jeannie, who had been ringing up an electrician on Register 2 and had put her hand up to shield against the bright sunlight, stopped working. She might have even stopped breathing, because the shape, which had mistaken her uplifted hand for a wave, waved back and for an instant she swam in blue-ocean eyes. The man (who comprised the shape) realized his error and stuffed his renegade hand deep into his pocket as if to punish it for its betrayal. But it was too late.
“Is there a problem with the price?” The electrician craned his neck to check her computer screen.
“No,” she said, straightening her shirt with one hand and her screen with the other. “Everything is great.” She hit the key to display the price for him, and while he was pulling out his contractor’s discount card, she gazed over his shoulder at the view that was disappearing down Aisle 5.
“God bless,” she murmured.
The electrician raised his eyes.
“ — America,” she said hastily and pointed towards the flagpole outside. “My brother’s in the service. I get emotional sometimes when I see the flag.”
“No need to apologize. I think it’s a fine thing when young people like you love your country.”
Jeannie nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man with the hand was walking up the main aisle towards the cash registers.
“It’s a pity so many don’t respect — ”
“ — Yes sir here’s your receipt and you come back,” she said.
He took his receipt with a discontented sigh.
“I can take you here,” she announced. The man with the hand was pretending not to hear while he scanned for another open register. Luckily, on Register 3 Laurie was changing the roll of receipt paper.
“I can take you at Register 2,” she called again.
He shifted and then, head down, approached her. With a thud, he placed his supplies on the counter. Bold-knuckled hands peppered with paint spray, fingernails scratched with pink.
“Missed your manicure appointment?” she asked, her eyebrow rising sharp with sarcasm while her eyes lit with the promise of a grin.
“Something like that,” he muttered as he dug his wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans. She followed his tanned arm up to the bulge of his bicep and on to his lean neck. She could already taste his skin, a cologne-scented nectarine, ripe with flavor.
“What are you painting?”
“A mural. Here.” He handed her his credit card to pay.
“So you’re an artist not a painter? That’s too bad.”
He frowned. “Why’s that?”
“Because I have a bedroom that needs painting.”
“Listen…”
Jeannie patted her stomach. “A baby’s room.”
“Oh,” he said in a faint voice. “Um, well, I used to do interior painting. If you don’t have anybody — ”
Jeannie shook her head when he extended his business card. “I was joking.”
He hesitated.
She smiled, letting his ocean eyes wash over her again before handing him his receipt. He picked up his can of paint, and with a “thank you” and an uncertain glance, headed for the automatic doors.
She followed him until he turned back into a shape and then a shadow in the sunlight. Rolling his name on her lips, she twisted the ring on her finger. “I know,” she whispered at the winking sun. “The joke’s on me.”
