edges of everything so that when she turned quickly to look at something, it moved just out of sight. And even while everything inside her body seemed to speed up, everything outside of her body—the movements of the other shoppers,the reaching and lowering of boxes and packages into carts—slowed. A carton of milk had a wet drip gathering along the cardboard seam. The tip of an old man’s nose was so vein threaded it looked blue, and when he went to rub it she saw the delicate hairs inside his nostrils, every bit as private as hair in any other part of the body. In the distant front of the store, the automatic doors wheezed open, and she could feel the cold air racing down the aisle to slide under the collar of her coat. She could see that the people around her didn’t care that she’d been missed. She took a step back and saw in vivid color—because her mind was that sharp at moments like this, everything spotlighted so that details she’d overlooked were now glaringly obvious—that in fact they’d orchestrated her exclusion for private, petty reasons that weren’t worth trying to understand. They smirked and nodded and gave each other signals. They’d banded together and decided that number fifty-one would get skipped.
She stepped out of her heels to get a better sense of what was happening, to defend herself if need be, and in one nimble motion she bent and swept the shoes from the floor, tossed them in her basket. She unwound the scarf from her neck.
“Wait!” she called out, raising her hand like a grade-schooler who’d just thought of the answer. She pushed forward to the counter.
“Are you all right?” a woman standing nearby asked. “You can’t take off your shoes.”
“Why can’t I?” Anne snapped, turning on the woman to study her. The woman’s lips were rubbery, untrustworthy, and she had shades of laziness in her expression that Anne found disgusting. Some distant part of her recognized the woman as a Eucharistic minister at St. Bartholomew’s, and she was amazed she’d never noted how revolting she was before this. This woman had put her filthy fingertips on the host, the body of Christ, and Anne had taken it into her mouth. She felt her stomach rise and a crawling at the back of her throat. She put a fist to her pursed mouth and willed herself not to vomit.
“Stop!” she shouted when the feeling passed. Everyone from the seafood case to the imported cheeses stopped talking and looked. She held up her ticket and stepped forward. “It’s my turn.” There was something pathetic in her voice—she could hear it as if she were listening to someone else—and in case they thought she was going to cry she repeated herself, louder, with more determination. But in the few short steps she took to the counter—she felt the cold of the linoleum floor on her bare feet as twin cramps at the bottom of her calves—she forgot what she wanted or why she was there, only that every single person in her vicinity had plotted against her.
“How dare you,” she said to the elderly man standing in front of the pasta salads. And then: “Stop looking at me.”
“I’m very sorry,” the man said, stepping aside. “Please go right ahead.”
“Stop looking at me,” she repeated.
“I’m not. I wasn’t. There’s no need to raise your voice, honey,” he said softly, and everyone understood he was trying to placate her, that this was a situation that could go a hundred different ways and he was trying to get it to go the calmest, easiest way possible. “I’m very sorry about that. It was an honest mistake but now you go right ahead.”
“Stop looking at me,” she shouted at him, and then she swung around and shouted it in the general direction of the rest of the store. The taller of the two hair-netted women behind the counter asked her in a firm tone to please lower her voice, while the other called the manager. Anne turned slowly in a circle, taking in everything and everyone, and then
She stepped out of her heels to get a better sense of what was happening, to defend herself if need be, and in one nimble motion she bent and swept the shoes from the floor, tossed them in her basket. She unwound the scarf from her neck.
“Wait!” she called out, raising her hand like a grade-schooler who’d just thought of the answer. She pushed forward to the counter.
“Are you all right?” a woman standing nearby asked. “You can’t take off your shoes.”
“Why can’t I?” Anne snapped, turning on the woman to study her. The woman’s lips were rubbery, untrustworthy, and she had shades of laziness in her expression that Anne found disgusting. Some distant part of her recognized the woman as a Eucharistic minister at St. Bartholomew’s, and she was amazed she’d never noted how revolting she was before this. This woman had put her filthy fingertips on the host, the body of Christ, and Anne had taken it into her mouth. She felt her stomach rise and a crawling at the back of her throat. She put a fist to her pursed mouth and willed herself not to vomit.
“Stop!” she shouted when the feeling passed. Everyone from the seafood case to the imported cheeses stopped talking and looked. She held up her ticket and stepped forward. “It’s my turn.” There was something pathetic in her voice—she could hear it as if she were listening to someone else—and in case they thought she was going to cry she repeated herself, louder, with more determination. But in the few short steps she took to the counter—she felt the cold of the linoleum floor on her bare feet as twin cramps at the bottom of her calves—she forgot what she wanted or why she was there, only that every single person in her vicinity had plotted against her.
“How dare you,” she said to the elderly man standing in front of the pasta salads. And then: “Stop looking at me.”
“I’m very sorry,” the man said, stepping aside. “Please go right ahead.”
“Stop looking at me,” she repeated.
“I’m not. I wasn’t. There’s no need to raise your voice, honey,” he said softly, and everyone understood he was trying to placate her, that this was a situation that could go a hundred different ways and he was trying to get it to go the calmest, easiest way possible. “I’m very sorry about that. It was an honest mistake but now you go right ahead.”
“Stop looking at me,” she shouted at him, and then she swung around and shouted it in the general direction of the rest of the store. The taller of the two hair-netted women behind the counter asked her in a firm tone to please lower her voice, while the other called the manager. Anne turned slowly in a circle, taking in everything and everyone, and then
Similar Books
