Goldfish, Fish Sticks, and the One That Got Away

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things on my shopping list. I had no idea that fate would also be on that list.

I wandered the isles, tossing things into my basket haphazardly and wrestling with the rogue cart with a shaky wheel. I stopped a moment to re-examine my list, crossing off "fate" and wondering how it got there. Then I looked up.

And there she was, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, standing among the cheeses. I stood there staring and holding a package of bun length ball park franks. Then our eyes met. The rest of the world seemed to melt away. Cheese melted into hot dogs, like a tasty treat for an afternoon snack or late evening meal. Stunned by her beauty, I dropped the delicious meat sticks into my cart next to the Lunchables and the Count Chocula. She smiled and turned, making her way to the Gouda. Our game of cat and incredibly attractive mouse had begun.

I paused for a moment to absorb the hilarity of her being a mouse in the cheese section.

She withdrew and I pursued. I backed away and she followed. I steered my cart into an adjacent aisle and pretended to read the instructions on a box of Pop Tarts. We caught each others glances through the Ramen noodles. I pretended to chug an entire gallon of milk and then fake throw up on myself and she laughed. And when she giggled it sounded like a bell ringing. Like the kind of bell that when it rings, an angel gets its wings. An angel like this one.

Finally I drew up close to her and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Then, after she adjusted her hearing aid, I repeated my nothings. She swung her wheelchair around to face me. Again, I was amazed by her beauty. The dim fluorescent lighting brought out her eyes among the dark circles and the wrinkled bags. I told her my name and she had a coughing fit. She looked so cute bent over, gasping for air. After a minute or so, she managed to wheeze out a response. I said, "Ethel, that’s a beautiful name. So Ethel, can I call you some time?" She muttered something about a rotary phone and shakily jotted some numbers on a box of prunes. I happily placed the box in my cart. Not the big area, but the top section, where you strap in the toddlers. You know, for extra care.

She forgot who I was after that, so I sensed the conversation was over. I steered my cart away and headed towards the checkout. But, hoping for one last look, I peered over my shoulder. She was feebly trying to maneuver her cart, but had gotten it tangled up in a display for adult diapers. Our eyes met one last time and I mouthed "I’ll call you." And she yelled, "Huh?"

I never really spoke to her again, but to this day I remember that moment. The only contact I have with her is on my birthday, because every year she sends me a dollar.