Sunday at eleven is the worst time to shop. Half the crowd is formal families on their way home from church, and the other half's composed of lazy bums who just woke up to empty refrigerators. Needless to say, I was in the second half.
Still wearing the sweats I had slept in, I managed to put my hair in a ponytail, pee, and wash my face before leaving the house. I had my mental grocery list, and we needed everything.
I stood in the produce section, eating a few grapes out of the bag. "$1.99 a pound is ridiculous anyway," I rationalized and waited for two chatty ladies to move out of the way.
A man behind me bumped my elbow while reaching for an onion. "Sorry," he mumbled, and I thought nothing of it. A little boy, next to no one, was scolded by his mother for being in the way.
Of course, the deli was busy, but I decided then and there not worry about time. As a gesture of goodwill toward all, I simply smiled at the counterman when an elderly couple cut in line, oblivious to the surrounding crowd.
Then he pulled up behind me, the man with the onion. I could see his cart and camouflage jacket in my peripheral vision. He wasn't too close, but I felt his breathing. I tucked a few stray pieces of hair behind my ear and became acutely aware that a leg of my sweats was stuck in the back of my sock. I curled my right toe around and pushed down the sock.
"Hmmm," rubbing my legs together felt good. I sensed his eyes on me. Unsure, I stood silently and sucked in my stomach for good measure. "What's up with this guy?" I wondered and tucked my left hand into my front sweatshirt pocket.
Men looked at me before I got married. I wasn't a huge flirt, but I appreciated attention. In the past three years, since I'd stopped dating, I was convinced my gold ring warned away men as effectively as garlic on vampires.
I stopped at a freezer for nothing particular but opened the glass door and inhaled the chill. Fish sticks, frozen shrimp. I looked over to my right. He was tall, and too thin. Dark hair, sharp features. I wouldn't say attractive, rough, like a biker or someone who worked with his hands.
I laughed at my suppositions. "Maybe he's rich and he cleans up real nice. Hell, look at me." I chastised myself for being so sloppy. In college, I used to put on make-up before going to the gym. Then in occurred to me that I hadn't looked at his hand. Ring or no ring? His left arm was closest.
Maybe that wasn't the first thing single people noticed. I'd been assuming I was wearing a scarlet letter, but maybe I was still getting scammed. "Good," I smiled with the thought. I was feeling horny.
I knew my husband was on the coach in front of the T.V. Maybe I could get some when I got home. Or, "even better idea," I schemed, "I could shower, put on some lingerie and then get a little." I hadn't done that in a while. "But," said a nagging voice, "You really should clean the shower while you're in there." That got me totally out of the mood.
