PART I
James and The Giant Avocado
Fruit has never been my forte. “Is an avocado a fruit?” I hadn’t asked the question with any seriousness. My mother ignored me.
“Ask that young man,” she said. She hefted an avocado, her thin lips puckering on one side. “He might know.”
“Might know if an avocado is a fruit?”
My mother flicked a glance at me. “Ask him where the organic avocados are.”
The young man in question had his back to us, his blue uniform shirt twisting as he refilled a basket of garlic from a box on a metal cart. Produce employees weren’t my forte either, but tally-ho and all that. I’d just taken a half-step forward when the young man turned in profile and I recognized my mother’s mistake.
Well, my mistake too. “That’s not a young man,” I said sotto voce.
My mother clucked her tongue.
I ignored her. I closed the gap between myself and the blue-clad woman. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for organic avocados.”
She looked up. Her name-tag said “Bea,” not even a full name. Beneath the jocular baseball cap and its supermarket logo, her green eyes had that same half-lidded look of resignation I’d seen so many times in the mirror — the mark of middle age. But whatever trials had left those fine lines around her lips, her smile was warm and genuine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re out of organic avocados.”
“Ah,” I said, not caring particularly. I didn’t even eat avocados. “Do you have any idea when they’ll be back in stock?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. She folded the flaps of the garlic box together, though they didn’t fit. The knuckles of her hands were split with tiny cuts. “There’s a quality issue.”
“They were bad, huh?”
“Yeah.” She glanced up. She only smiled again after she dropped her gaze. “I put my thumb straight through one.”
“Eww.”
“Seriously.” She laughed. The same smile, only softer. Her eyes stayed on the garlic box. “I can ask my manager when we’re likely to get a shipment.”
“Oh, no that’s fine.” I worked retail too. I knew from the way she’d said it that she was tired, that she didn’t want to drop what she was doing to track down her manager even though that’s probably what she was expected to do. All I wanted her to do was look up, just one more time. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” The smile was tight. Her eyes darted to my face for only a second. Her cheeks bore the diffuse stain of a blush.
I stood for a moment as she wheeled her cart away.
“Well?” My mother’s wizened face appeared at my elbow.
“Bad news,” I said. “We’ll have to use conventional avocados in the dip.”
My mother blew out a flabby sigh. She tossed an avocado into her cart. “What’s the world coming to?”
PART II
To Bea or Not To Bea
Malls have always been one of my racial enemies. Mauls. They were like monuments to the death of culture. Or maybe I was just in a bad mood because my stupid phone broke. First week at a brand-new job, haven’t even been paid yet, and I’m going to have to blow three digits on a new phone.
Be positive! My cheerful internal voice. Okay, at least I can afford to buy a new phone and I’ll also, finally, be off my mother’s plan. Yay for fully-fledged independence at forty-six. Christ, was I that old? Be positive. Be positive.
“Can I help you?”
The service center was crowded. I didn’t realize at first that the salesman was speaking to me. I turned around belatedly. “Sure,” I said. I probably sounded as resigned as I felt. Why couldn’t I just be more positive? “I need a new phone.”
“Certainly,” he said. He gestured to a kiosk. “We can take care of that. Do you have a particular model in mind?”
“Not really.” I answered without thinking. I couldn’t care less about phones. I was more interested in the fact that he was tall and there was something familiar about his gait or his body type… or his shoes? “I just want something cheap.”
“Ah,” he said. His eyes were on a console, his frame bent slightly as he paged through a touchscreen. I took advantage of his distraction to get a better look at his face, not so much to see if I recognized him — which was a legitimate excuse — but to indulge myself. He was handsome af. In another world I might have asked if I could snap a picture, use his likeness as inspiration for a character in a story. But in this one I had to drop my eyes before he looked up, had to bite my lips in a bland cliché because I will seriously smile like an idiot if I don’t.
“I can show you a few models,” he said. “If you’ll wait here.”
“Of course.” The words were mild, his and mine. He was a salesman. He was busy. I didn’t care. I had to take my pleasure where I could get it, and if a long glance at a face like his was my compensation for an annoying trip to the mall, well I’d take it. “Not a problem.”
I don’t even think he heard me. A second employee had arrived, asked him a question. I was idly looking for somewhere to sit when he gestured toward me and spoke: “After I’ve finished assisting this young lady…”
Irritation pricked me. “I’m forty-six.” I gave him a generic smile. “I’m not a young lady.”
One or the other apologized. I knew they were trained to say things like that but I have a hard time playing along with stupid marketing games. Age doesn’t have a lot of privileges, but that’s one I’m going to assume I have.
I returned to my search for a chair and sank down onto a vinyl cushion. No one was at the kiosk now. Places like this always depressed me. Cows in a feedlot. Everyone’s eyes on their little glowing screens. I knew I was being hyper-critical because I didn’t want to be here, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I was also ambivalent about my new job, suffering residual over-stimulation from an exhausting week navigating social hurdles. Meeting new people, taking a new bus line, wearing new shoes.
His shoes. That was it, wasn’t it? I’d noticed them that night at the store. They were stylish, a sort of dressy boot, taller than typical shoes. I remember thinking ‘When I get a better job, I want a pair of shoes like that.’ He was wearing them now, with dress pants, looking like sexy on a stick.
“I’m sorry again.”
I looked up. He met my eyes, I think for the first time. I couldn’t keep them. I looked away and got awkwardly to my feet feeling like a bag-lady with my canvas tote because I had to have water with me on such a long bus trip and hadn’t yet found a man-bag that didn’t make me look like I was wearing a purse even though, as a female, I was expected to have one.
Not that I was nervous.
“It’s not a problem,” I said, knowing I’d already said that. “It’s part of your job.”
“Not my favorite part,” he said. His eyes were on the console again. “But you really do look very young.”
“I don’t,” I said. Then, because I thought maybe I sounded cross, “At least not in the mirror first thing in the morning.”
He smiled. “I don’t even look anymore.”
I raised my brows. “You?” Dude, I’d look at that face every morning for the rest of my life and die happy. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” He laughed, just a bit of a snort, a breath. But I heard in it some faint trace of disappointment, or maybe that came from the tiny pucker in one corner of his mouth. “Life leaves its mark.”
“It does.” More than one. I decided to say it out loud. “More than one.”
He met my eyes again. It was the second time, but the first time he seemed to really look at me. “Are you still out of organic avocados?”
I laughed, the words taking me by surprise. “I knew I recognized you,” I said. “They were fully stocked the last time I was there.”
He pulled open an OEM box and set a phone on the table. “You still work there?”
“No, I had to quit,” I said. The disappointment in my voice was genuine. “After I got a full-time job I did weekends for a while, but then it got to be too much.” I was rambling, or felt like I was rambling.
“You like it?”
“The phone?”
His brow creased. “The new job.” He smiled. “Or both.”
“Ha.” I picked up the phone. “I don’t know about the job yet.” Was I talking too much? Why would a stranger care if I liked my new job? “I’m indifferent about phones. I mean, I just don’t care about technology unless it’s useful.”
“Phones aren’t useful?”
“A phone as a phone is useful,” I said. I watched him unbox a second one. “A phone as a replacement for a PC, a camera, a watch, and a dishwasher is not.”
His smile showed off a dimple. “I still wear a watch.”
“So do I.” I pulled my necklace up, revealing my little analog watch.
He unbuttoned a sleeve. “You’ve got me beat,” he said. “Mine’s digital.”
I laughed. My eyes lingered on the hair that curled over the gold band. I dropped my gaze, not knowing what else to say. I picked up the phones again, one at a time. He mentioned a few features but I honestly didn’t care. I checked myself as I reached for my old phone, chagrined to realize I’d wanted to research the various models before I bought one. Christ.
“This one’s the cheapest,” he said. “It has a $30 mail-in rebate.”
“I don’t do mail-in rebates.” I smiled that same tight smile, hating to be that customer.
“You know what I’m going to do…” His eyes flicked up and down the touchscreen as his hand moved over it — a hand with no ring on its ring finger. “I’m just going to give you the $30 off.”
“You can do that?”
He smiled without looking up. “I can do that,” he said. “Give me five minutes and I promise I won’t call you ‘young lady.'”
I laughed at the unexpected joke.
Ten minutes later I had my new phone in my hand. I flicked through the apps, already contemplating which ones it would let me delete and which ones I’d have to tuck away in a nondescript folder. “I’ve got text data on this plan, right?”
“Yup.” He came around to the other side of the kiosk. “Do you want to test it?”
“Yeah, sure.” I kept my eyes glued to my little glowing screen, aware of how close he was even though it wasn’t any closer than was strictly polite. There it was, the little bleep — I’d have to change the default noise, of course — and there was the message: ‘Have you any Grey Poupon?’
I burst out laughing — and clapped a hand over my mouth. I can be obnoxious sometimes. I tapped at the virtual keyboard, ‘*rolls down window* Why of course.’
He smiled over his phone. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes struck me with an unexpected flash of tenderness. I wished… Well, there was no sense wishing. The phone blooped again. It was a GIF: A car window slowly descending to reveal Deadpool — who then offered up a jar of Grey Poupon.
I barked another laugh. This time I didn’t care. “Where did you even find that?”
“You mean, you don’t have a collection of Deadpool GIFs on your phone?”
“If I did, I’d never get anything done,” I said. I caught another smile from him. This time I tried to hold his gaze. “Can we test the voice data?”
“Sure.” He tapped at his phone.
“Pretend it’s not me,” I said. “Like you’re just making a call.”
He glanced up — and winked. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course,” I said. “No problem.”
Unknown caller. He turned his back.
I flicked the touchscreen.
“Yeah, so how do you like the new phone?” His voice sounded different, of course. Everyone’s voice sounds different over the phone. I recognized it now from the supermarket, without the distraction of his physical presence.
“It’s not bad,” I said. “There’s just one flaw: not enough Deadpool GIFs.”
He laughed. I heard it twice, once from somewhere on my left, picked out from the ocean of background chatter, and again like a distant whisper in my ear. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll throw in a dozen or so, gratis.”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Digital download or hand delivered?” That was awkward. Or at least more awkward than I’d intended.
“Oh, I can accommodate both. What did you have in mind?”
A thrill tickled me straight up through my collarbone. “How about a beer?” What the hell day was it? It was Friday. “Sometime this weekend?” Oh, how wishy-washy. Be confident! “Tomorrow night?”
“How about coffee tomorrow morning?”
“I’d love it,” I said. Confident, confident, confident. “How about ‘Back to the Grind’ on Cassidy?” The only café I could get to on the bus that wasn’t a Starbucks.
“Ten o’clock?”
“Nine-thirty and it’s a deal.”
“Deal.”
“And don’t forget the GIFs.”
“I won’t forget the GIFs.”
I turned toward his voice.
He was smiling, something soft in his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah.” I stood there for one awkward moment. “You know, I still have to pay for the phone.”
PART III
Did I Say This Was A Love Story?
It took me forty-five minutes to choose a pair of socks. That’s a new record: it usually takes me an hour. I was wearing my brogues anyway, so she wouldn’t even see them, but as I looked for a table by the window I was rehearsing an excuse to show them off. I’d arrived a half-hour early, suspecting she might do the same — and I was right. Just as I dropped into an overstuffed couch, she walked in the door.
She hadn’t seen me yet. I should have gotten up and gone to meet her, but I didn’t. I pretended I hadn’t seen her, took off my trench coat, looked out the window, all the while feeling vaguely guilty as I kept her in my peripheral vision. What the hell was wrong with me? I got up.
She smiled. She was wearing those skinny black denim jeans again, the ones I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off of as I was making a fool of myself over a phone. I doubt she spent forty-five minutes picking out socks.
“Hey.” I met her half-way. “I kind of figured you’d be early.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“I wouldn’t say obvious,” I said. “More like reliable.” Oh, now that’s sexy talk.
She dropped her gaze, still smiling. Her cheeks were flushed with pink but they’d been like that since she’d walked in, either from nerves or the autumn wind, I couldn’t tell. “Did you order yet?”
“I can get them,” I said. “Any preference? Foam height? Flavor enhancements? Organic free-range beans?”
She laughed. “Just coffee,” she said. “And I’ll get it myself. I’m not a young lady, remember?”
I was disappointed, at least a little. I liked to do things for people, treat people. Although maybe I did that too much. “Sure,” I said. “Do you come here often?”
“Isn’t that a cliché?”
“Of course,” I said. We joined the line at the counter. “I’m all about clichés.”
“Like paying for a woman’s coffee?”
“It’s two bucks.” Why should it bother me this much? “I don’t mind.”
“I do.” She wasn’t looking at me. “No real freedom can exist on any foundation save that of pecuniary independence.” She smiled that same tight smile I’d seen before. “Susan B. Anthony.”
Active listening, active listening. “So you’re saying it’s important to you?”
“More important than anything.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but the line cleared and she ordered her coffee.
Neither of us spoke as we sat down. It had started to rain, the window smeary with slanting drops. The awkwardness between us had sunk into silence. She hadn’t even sipped her coffee yet.
I tried to rally with a smile. “So, you read Susan B. Anthony?”
“No.” She glanced at me. She rubbed her hands together. “I just… I had to rebuild my life a few years ago and I found her words inspiring.”
“About independence?”
“Yeah.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes on the window. “It feels good to pay for my own stuff.” She laughed, just a soft sound, a breath. “Not that I minded the $30 discount.”
I smiled. I felt the re-connection between us like a warm wave. “It was my pleasure,” I said. “And I know what you mean about rebuilding your life.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t look at her. No matter how many times I did this, I still hated it. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.” I pulled out my key-chain. “Three years sober.”
Her eyes widened. “Can I see that?”
“Sure.”
She traced the date with her fingers, smirked at the ‘Sober AF’ engraved on the other side. “That takes a lot of courage,” she said. “To do it and to be honest about it.”
“Not really.” I responded too quickly, heard the bitterness in my voice. “I mean, yeah, you’re right. I just don’t always see it that way.”
She handed the key-chain back. “It’s hard to give ourselves a break sometimes.”
“We’re all human. We all make mistakes. We all deserve a second chance.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be here.”
“Me either.”
The silence fell again, but the warmth was still there. “So,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re into craft beer.”
She smiled. “I am,” she said. “But I love coffee too.”
“And Deadpool.”
“And Deadpool.” She grinned. “Who doesn’t love Deadpool?”
“Voted ‘Most Lovable Superhero’ no times in a row.”
She laughed. “Deadpool memes are best memes.”
I hiked my boot onto a chair and revealed my bobblehead Deadpool socks.
She burst into a full-hearted laugh, her face transformed. “Were you wearing those the day I saw you at the supermarket?”
“No, I had my Daredevil socks on,” I said. “I remember debating between those and The Thing.”
“So, you’re into comic books?”
“If you mean, do I have an entire room full of collectibles, including thirty-four pairs of superhero, manga, and anime socks? Why yes, I do.”
“Most of my socks have cats on them.” She pulled up the cuff of her jeans: cats dancing under a disco ball. “These are my favorite.”
“You wore your favorite socks to have coffee with me?”
She shrugged. “It was either these or cats pooping rainbows.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or not.”
“I just didn’t want you to think I was too weird,” she said. “But now that I know about the thirty-four pairs of anime socks…” She grinned.
“Hey now, it’s only fifteen pairs of anime socks,” I said. “The rest are superheroes, Gundam, Final Fantasy, and Zelda.”
“Oh, you play games too? Which ones?”
“Let’s see…”
An hour-and-a-half later we stood together outside the door. The rain had stopped, leaving behind the dull glow of a cloud obscured sun and patches of clear blue. Bea had pulled on her jacket, a short, buckled affair in the same brown as her flat cap and hiking boots, looking tall and slim and boyish in the muted light.
She glanced up at me. “It’s been a fantastic morning,” she said. “I wish I didn’t have to get going.”
“Laundry?”
She laughed. “No, game development meeting.”
“You make video games?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a hobby.”
“That’s a pretty impressive hobby.”
She looked down at her shoes. I recognized the struggle, could almost hear her internal voice. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s what I love best in the world.”
“More than craft beer?”
“More than craft beer.”
I hesitated. “I have two questions, before you go.”
“I may have two answers,” she said. “Shoot.”
“First, would you have lunch with me tomorrow? I know a great place in Beverly that serves vegan and vegetarian food.” I’d paid attention: she’d ordered almond milk with her coffee.
“After my laundry is done, yes.” She grinned. “I’m kidding. What time?”
“Noon.”
“Perfect. Second question?”
“Can I give you a hug?”
Her smile faltered. “Sure,” she said. “But there may be consequences.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I might not let you go.”
I took her into my arms. She felt so fragile, like a bird, like she had hollow bones. I rubbed her back and she sighed with a catch like a sob. I held her until she pulled away. I pretended not to notice as she wiped her eyes.
She cleared her throat. “Wow,” she said. “I just came for the GIFs, you know.”
I laughed. “It was the socks, wasn’t it?”
“It was the socks.” She smiled. She took my hand.
The touch was brief, electric. Warmth radiated over my face and down my chest. “I’m so glad you were out of organic avocados.”
She laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I watched her walk away. I waved when she looked back, and stood with a stupid smile on my face long after I lost sight of her. I caressed the date embossed on my key-chain, already debating which pair of socks to wear to lunch tomorrow.
FINI
