Supermarket Cleopatra

Her cigarette in a long amber holder, long fingernails perfectly kept and painted, she lifts her espresso cup and takes a little sip as she watches the world go by. She’s sitting at that outdoor café in her usual spot. I see her there a few days a week in good weather when I walk by in the early morning. She’s always well dressed too and obviously cares a great deal about her appearance. The only exception is the eye makeup which she glomps on as if she were a gypsy fortune teller in a small circus. Everything else about her is tasteful or faux elegant (the cigarette holder), but the outre eye makeup is sort of jarring. And it’s the thing that alerted me to who she was when I saw her sitting there the first time. Across the street from the café is a large supermarket and a hundred times I’d said hello to her because she works as a cashier there. On duty she wears a long white coat that looks like something a doctor or lab technician wears. At the checkout counter she’s civil but not overly pleasant. If you get a small smile from her when you say hello it’s a victory. But the thick eye makeup gives her away even there. It tells you she has another life, another image of herself beyond checking how much celery costs today. And that real her, the woman she wants to be, lives across the street at the cafe every day before she comes here to work. I like knowing her just a little in both roles.