It wasn’t in a coffee shop with the curling smell of blackened coffee grinds settling on its hipster-esque patrons who pledge that Starbucks is too “mainstream.” It wasn’t in a park where stressed out writers sit on park benches and write until their wrists ache, even though they have no faith in the words they’re putting down on the page. It was at a gas station on the bad side of town where she’d walked in in a dress she shouldn’t be wearing on the bad side of town, because some of us are animals and collect things that look fine.
I was thinking that as I was scanning through the candy bar aisle, debating whether or not my body would be pleased with a Snickers bar or some Reese’s. She came in like a whirlwind, all flustered with her hair blown around her face and her sparkling black dress hitching up on one side. The guy to my right was looking at her with more than a bit of appreciation; I picked up a Milky Way bar, looked at it for a few moments, put it back.
“Marshmallows. Do you have any marshmallows?” she asked the cashier. He looked taken aback (not that I blame him) and pointed down the candy aisle. The guy to my right scooped a bag up, grimy fingernails clutching the bag greedily, and walked past me up to her.
“Got some ‘mallows fer ya right here, lil lady,” he said and leaned up against the counter. Her nose wrinkled and it was probably his breath, what with how close he was to her. She caught me looking and looked at me angrily and I felt my ears turn red and the blood rush to my face. I decided to go with Snickers. “Mm, where you gon all dressy like that?” She was paying for her marshmallows now and pointedly ignoring him. “Hey hey, list’n when I’m talkin’ to you,” he said and grabbed her arm. She froze.
“Lay off her,” I said. Did I say that? Out loud? Apparently I had because he wheeled towards me and grinned wolfishly at me. He moved his hand up to her shoulder. “I said lay off her,” and grabbed his arm. The guy staggered and turned to me with balled fists. The cashier cleared his throat and motioned to the cell phone in his hand, brows raised pointedly at us. He jerked his head toward the door and the guy sauntered off.
She stood there with her marshmallows in a white plastic bag saying Thank You! J. Her knuckles were white and she just stood there and didn’t move. I put my Snickers bar on the counter next to her and said, “Uh, you okay?”
I finally got to glance at her face and it was terrifying; her jaw was set, brows drawn, nose all scrunched up, but her eyes were so far away. “One forty-two,” said the cashier. I counted out the change and handed it to him and still she hadn’t moved or tried to say anything. She was just standing there breathing.
Her eyes flashed. “No,” she said to me and turned away. Surprised, I grabbed my Snickers bar, ignored the cashier telling me that I was leaving my change, and did an awkward walk-jog-skip over to her as she left the door.
“Hey okay, I should have known that, I guess. But you have to be careful down here and you look great like really great and that can get you in trouble.” She stopped walking away from me and then turned. This time she looked incredulous, still angry, but mostly incredulous.
“My clothes aren’t an invitation,” she said and I didn’t expect that much venom inside of them.
“N-no. I know that. It’s just the world we live in, you know? It’s not great, but it’s the truth.” She still looked mighty angry, but now she was thoughtful and I wondered if perhaps everything she felt always had a touch of anger to it. And she didn’t look like she was going to say anything so I said, “You like marshmallows?”
She looked at the Thank You!J bag as if she didn’t recognize it. Then she frowned. When she looked back up at me, there wasn’t anger. There was sadness.
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