You don’t know me: Groceries
A series connecting strangers
I grip the handle of my steel cart harder to turn the corner wide, the one wobbly wheel not steadied by the heft of my heap inside. One last stop, veggies on top.
I see you there, struggling to divide your usual count in half. One more apple? Or no? You smooth your hand over its deceptively protective ruby skin. The math is too hard. You’ve used it all up on more important things and have nothing left for this.
I watch your spine stiffen when that man cleared his throat a little too close behind you. Your suddenly icy hand losing focus and grip, your precious fruit hit the floor.
It didn’t roll far.
You reach to retrieve it, and your sleeve creeps up, betraying your secret, revealing the remnant of his last attempt to anchor you to him. Faded enough now to others, but fresh and tender for you.
And for me.
You rub your thumb across the dented sphere, apologetic for and sympathetic to its pain. You place it carefully in your basket with the others because you know that most of it is still good.
You don’t know me, but I survived his abuse, too.
I love Sean Howard, Lizella Prescott, and Randomly Me. In no particular order and for all different reasons. Thank you for your continued contributions, conversations, and inspiration.
