“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”
“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”
The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.
“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.
“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Says you.”
They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.
“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”
“I might want something else.”
“Do you?”
“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”
“Some things are just expected.”
“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.
“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”
“It’s in my head.”
“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”
“Of course. Where else?”
They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.