(Another long story, sorry, but I'm trying to work on my writing, so this is the result of about a week of writing and trying to edit my own work. Please let me know how I did!)
*****
It was supposed to be a simple grocery shopping trip. I have a small apartment, with a small kitchen, with not a lot of storage, so when I went to the grocery store, I went with the intent of purchasing enough food to plan a few days worth of meals, and I only ate two meals a day anyway. If I ever purchased breakfast food, it was because I'd planned on using it to have breakfast for dinner. I stood in one of three aisles full of freezers, where all the frozen food is stored and displayed... you've most likely been to a grocery store in your life, so you don't need me to explain the normal layout of a grocery store, do you?
It was late, nearly 10:30 at night, and the store would be closing at midnight, and I was adding a few packages of frozen corn to my shopping cart when a woman rounded the corner, coming into the same aisle. Her hair was in disarray, her makeup smudged with tears, and she looked simply miserable, though there's never anything simple about it, is there? She appeared to be Japanese or Korean, sometimes I can't tell, though I'm told there are differences in appearance between the two. I'm not racist, I just can't tell the difference sometimes. She was dressed in an old sea-foam-green cardigan and dark slacks, and had scuffed looking flats on her feet. Shopping seemed to be the last thing on her mind, but she still stopped at a freezer and grabbed a box of three-cheese lasagna and dropped it in her cart.
She didn't seem to see me as she passed, and, as I got a closer look at her face, I could see that she must be in her late twenties, maybe as old as 30, but perhaps the smeared makeup, mainly her mascara, made her look older, I thought. At first, I was hesitant to even speak to her, thinking that, whatever her problems, they were just that: her problems. But then she stopped, her back to me, and I could see her hunch over her shopping cart, and her shoulders started to shake as she sobbed quietly.
Shit, I thought to myself, I'm gonna get involved and she's probably gonna screech at me and cause a scene, but I'm gonna go and get involved anyway, because, if there's anything that gets to me the most, it's seeing a woman cry like that. I left my cart and approached her carefully, for some reason, a clip from The Crocodile Hunter coming to mind, 'Whoa! There's not many creatures as dangerous as the sobbing Asian lady, one bite from her will send you right to the hospital for stitches... I'm gonna pat her back!'
"Excuse me," I spoke quietly as I stood about a foot from her back, "Are you okay?"
She still started, and she hunched a little further, as if expecting to be hit, before turning to face me, "Oh... I'm sorry..."
Her English was saturated heavily by her accent, but she spoke carefully to make sure they came out properly.
"Is there something the matter?" I asked, keeping my voice low and soothing, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, as she seemed almost about to flee.
"Oh, no... I... I'm okay..." she wouldn't look me in the eye, her eyes fastened to the floor in a very demure fashion.
"It's just that you're crying," I said, "Is it something you'd like to talk about?"
She stifled a sob, sniffled, and sighed, "I am... I... am sad."
Not a very specific type of answer, I still asked, "Would you like to talk about it? I'm not busy or anything, so I have time."
"I should not speak bad about my... my husband... he brought me here to this country, and he make sure I have a roof over my head."
I nodded, "We can sit and talk about it, if you'd like."
She hesitated, stealing the barest of glances at me before lowering her head once more, "O-okay. Where do we sit and talk?"
"There's a diner across the street," I suggested, "We can have some coffee if you want."
"But your shopping?"
I shrugged, "I can come back tomorrow and do it then. What about yours? Do you need to finish shopping first?"
She wiped her eyes, "I... just... I pretend to shop..."
"And why is that?"
"So they not make me leave..."
I had to think about that for a minute, and then I asked, "How about we put these things back in the freezer then, okay?"
So she returned the lasagna to the freezer, and I put my frozen corn back. She had nothing else in her cart, and I had a few boxes of Minute Rice and a bottle of orange juice, but it would be fine until someone put it up. I would've, but I had other priorities, trying to do that whole 'white-knight' thing I tend to do that gets me into trouble more often than not. I walked with her out the front door, through the parking lot, and across the street to a diner called Sylvia's. Sylvia's was a bit run down, but clean, and the food was decent as long as you like it greasy. I chose an empty booth and gestured for the woman to sit down before I sat.
The waitress, a tired-looking sixty-year-old woman with her mousy-brown hair done up in a tight bun slapped two menus down in front of us.
"Two coffees to start, please?" I ordered.
"Cream and sugar's in the dish there," she pointed, "Be right back."
The Asian woman simply sat with her hands clasped together in her lap and her eyes on the table before her.
The waitress, whose name, according to her nametag, was Bethany, returned with two mugs of steaming-hot coffee, which she set before us on the table, "Anything to eat?"
"Not yet, I don't think, but probably shortly."
"Just give me a wave when you're ready," Bethany plodded off, her slightly overweight figure straining the seams of a too-small waitress uniform as she walked back to the front counter to sit at a stool.
I added half a container of half-n-half and five packets of sugar to my coffee, stirred it, and then glanced at the woman to find that she'd been watching me decorate my coffee. She then added two creams and four sugars to her own coffee before stirring it and taking a careful sip.
"So," I asked, "Would you like to tell me about what happened?"
She hesitated for a few seconds before explaining, "My husband... he has a... a mistress. He try to hide it from me, but I find out. I look through his pants when I wash clothes... and I find receipts... for motel and dinner at restaurant."
"That sounds awful," I winced.
"Today... I tell him I know... he got mad... very mad, yelling mad, call me names, say I... I am wrong for looking through his pants... he... make me leave house, tell me not to come back..."
Tears were overflowing and escaping her eyes by then, and I felt awful for her.
"Jeez, that's not right," I responded, "He was the one cheating, and he threw you out for confronting him on it? Is that why you were pretending to shop?"
She nodded, "I don't know what else to do. I cannot go home, and I cannot afford hotel. I took bus here..."
'Oh look,' I thought ruefully to myself, 'A damsel in distress! The White Knight rides again!'
To her, I suggested, "Well, if I could afford to, I'd get you a room for a couple nights at a hotel, but my budget's stretched thin."
"It is okay," she shook her head, "I not... I would not be able to accept such a gift."
"What I can do is let you stay with me. I can sleep on the couch and you can sleep in my bed, and then tomorrow, I'll help you figure out what to do next."
My words caused her to look up at me in surprise.
"I... I cannot... my husband be mad if I stay at other man's house."
"I don't plan on telling him, and you shouldn't either, if it would cause you more trouble, but I can't let you sleep on the street."
