Three days later, I return to the grocery. Late afternoon. And there is Keisha at her usual station, distractedly scanning items, bagging groceries—in loose-fitting smock, slacks—no festive scarf tied about her throat today.

To my dismay I see that Keisha is unsmiling. Slump-shouldered. Her face has been made up with a particularly unconvincing rosy-peach makeup to disguise what appears to be bruising beneath her right eye. Her upper lip is swollen. Her delicately boned nose is swollen. She has been beaten. By—

Husband? A jealous husband.

Nothing I could have anticipated. Given gifts of cash by an anonymous admirer, the poor woman has been suspected of—infidelity?

My gifts, meant only to enliven the poor convalescent’s life, have backfired for her.

No one has noticed me in the grocery so far. I don’t think so. There is a little flurry of activity, unrelated to Keisha, at the other cash register.

Trying to disguise my alarm, I push a grocery cart into the interior of the store as if I have come simply to shop. (Will anyone notice that I have returned to the store, so soon? I am hoping that N__ is as invisible to others as they are usually invisible to him.)

With a few innocuous items to purchase, I return to the front of the store. My heart is beating rapidly, contritely. Though Keisha has two customers waiting in line and another cashier has none, I make my way to Keisha’s cash register, as if not happening to notice. My behavior is senseless, suspicious. I am beginning to perspire, a creature at bay.

Waiting in line. Gazing (covertly) at Keisha. The shell of her head looks particularly fragile today. Bruised, swollen face. Partially blackened eye. Yet bravely she has tried to disguise her injuries. She has even applied lipstick to her partially swollen, asymmetrical mouth. All day (I assume) the poor woman has had to endure stares, clumsy queries, or murmured commiseration from nosy strangers.

My dear! What has happened to you?—I will not inquire.

Though my heart contracts with sorrow for Keisha. Unless it’s anger for whoever has abused her.

To whom is the unhappy woman married, who could not share in his wife’s (minor) good fortune but felt obliged to punish her for it? Another time I note the wedding band, with a pang of contempt.

Puerile symbol of the marital bond. Such ordinariness suffocates.

“Paper or plastic, sir?”—the cashier’s voice is low, hoarse.

“Paper. Why do you always ask?”

Keisha glances at me, startled. Sharpness in my voice that I hadn’t intended. Possibly I’d meant to sound commiserative, sympathetic. But the reply is awkward, for I am an awkward person outside the confines of my being, in which I am precisely calibrated.

Keisha murmurs “Sorry!” It is too late for me to murmur sorry! to her, but I set about putting the several purchases into the bag myself to compensate for the sharpness in my voice, which I did not intend, I swear.