It seems that I have become something of a regular customer at McGuire’s (by default, for I would rather not patronize the dingy grocery at all, as I would rather not “patronize” any store in any way that might be construed as routine, predictable). I am not so frequent a customer as to greet Keisha with anything like surprise, or pleasure, at seeing her back at the cash register. (As if having returned to McGuire’s is any sort of life!) Still less would I presume to ask how the poor woman is, as I have heard others do, with maddening cheer. So, Keisha, how’s it going?—you’re looking good.

Such flippant greetings are offensive to me, even if they don’t seem to be offensive to Keisha, who merely smiles and murmurs a courteous reply.

None of your business. Leave me alone. Go to Hell.

But no: not this young woman. Not likely.

Today my purchases in McGuire’s are few and unremarkable. I will not note them here, for there is an obscure sort of shame in presenting, for the world’s glib judgment, anything so intimate as the items a solitary individual purchases for himself to eat/drink in the solitude of his barely furnished residence—None of your business is the appropriate commentary.

Less than a half dozen items for Keisha to briskly scan and push along with her thin, deft hands. On the third finger of her left hand she wears a plain wedding band that fits her fingers loosely. So, she is married.

Hardly surprising. Very likely the woman is a mother, too.

Paper or plastic?—Keisha will inevitably ask, though you’d think (I would think) she’s intelligent enough to recall that she has asked me this question before and that I am the sort of ecologically conscious customer who would prefer paper over plastic.

Still, the cashiers at McGuire’s always ask. No matter if they have asked numerous times before. No matter that I always give the same answer.

To help the alarmingly thin Keisha, I will “bag” my groceries myself. Indeed, I am feeling a reluctant sort of tenderness—weakness—in the vicinity of the cashier, and a peculiar impulse to reach out to touch her (very thin) wrist, as if to give comfort.

And the baby-fine hair that scarcely covers her scalp! My fingers yearn to stroke Keisha’s hair, which appears, in the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, the hue of soft, faded copper.

And I find myself thinking, with a thrill of wonder—You. You will be the one.

4.

And so a decision has been made, it seems.

Yet not (so far as I can comprehend) by me.

Walking home along the river at my usual brisk pace to signal to whoever might be observing—There is a man with a destination.

Carrying the (single, paper) bag from the grocery that weighs heavier than I’d have anticipated.