The Palpitating

Spenser floating down the aisles of the local pharmacy, trying to hold steady the list in his mind. Toothbrush. Floss. Deodorant, sure, might as well, that’s a decent price. Lingers by the glossy little neighborhood of condoms populating the end of aisle 5, all the colours of the rainbow. Takes a glance over his shoulder, doesn’t see anyone and hurriedly tosses a three-pack into his basket. Then puts this back, shoulder checks again and finesses the back of the rack to get some with the latest expiry date.

He rounds the corner into the ghostly tailings of a conversation just ended, the lingering grains of which Spenser can sift from the air (he realizes he had been listening, absent-mindedly, before he came upon them). A father, a young daughter, the store clerk. The father asking where they keep the Valentines, you know the ones you cut out or punch out, the ones with the big hearts everywhere, with the cute little sayings written on the back and the kittens and the football players or the robots hugging or holding the hearts? Enough to sign and hand out to the rest of the class. She needs them for tomorrow morning. But the store clerk has told him that it’s too late to get those, they’ve sold out. Everyone looking bewildered now that there is nothing left to say.

Spenser stealthily checking his watch as he slides past the trio. Eleven minutes until closing. This was surely their last…