I had just decided to lay the jar of natural peanut butter
down on its side in the cart (to help some of the oil make it to the bottom for
easier mixing) when I first heard his voice.
His voice was not loud, but tight, as though being fiercely controlled. I don’t remember the exact order of the
phrases: “Don’t.” “You get back here.” “Wait.”
I don’t remember all of them; I don’t remember which I heard before I
saw them.
She came around the corner first. She was tall, thin, young, and pale, with ironed-straight
strawberry blond hair and multiple bruises on the right side of her face. He followed, carrying a basket. Another word from him; she turned; then a
quiet exchange. She turned again and
walked away.
Getting on with my own business (or at least wanting to
appear that I did so) I wheeled my cart through the widening gap between them. The tension in that space, rolling off of
that man, was so palpable I fought to keep breathing. I pushed my cart around the corner into the
next aisle. I heard him drop his basket,
then he said another phrase, maybe “Don’t you walk away from me,” maybe something else, still tight, barely
controlled. I told myself that nothing I
could say or do wouldn’t make it worse, or I that I could be misreading the
whole situation; I told myself these things repeatedly. I grabbed a bag of frozen vegetables, then
saw him leaving his aisle, basket in hand.
As I continued my shopping, I found myself watching for them,
looking in the direction I thought she would have gone, still struggling to
breathe normally. Much later I think I saw
him, basket in hand, Day-Glo lime baseball cap on his head (surely I should
have noticed that hat before?). She was
not with him, and I felt a moment of relief.
I pray she was not waiting for him in the car.
I pray she had somewhere to go tonight where he would not
be.
I pray she never finds herself alone with that man, ever.
