Unexpected Encounter

By Marcelo Medone

I saw you in a cheap store through the large window overlooking the street; I was going to do my grocery shopping, as I do every two or three days. I still find it hard to get organized: I am a typical man who needs a woman to help him with the basics of everyday life.

My heart stopped for a moment. The sight of your figure still has that effect on me. I can't help it. I don't think I'll ever find someone who can move me so fundamentally and make the world instantly make sense to me.

I hesitated to go on, to stay a while and watch you from the outside or to go in and try to force an encounter.

I couldn't decide between the second and third alternatives when you saw me, smiled and raised your hand to greet me. That same smile with which you tell me I love you from the photo on the pewter picture frame that I still have on the mantelpiece. That same hand with which you caressed me naked in my bed until not too long ago and that made my skin crawl with pleasure. That same hand you raised to ask me to stop and not hurt you anymore. I have those images etched in my heart, two sides of the same coin, wrapped in guilt and shame, pain and regret.

For an instant I was paralyzed with emotion and surprise. I never thought you could see me as easily as I could through that glass barrier that gave me the illusion that we were in two separate realities. But we were always in the same world, it's just that lately we didn’t fit in.

Finally, after an interminable pause that will have lasted barely two seconds, I raised my right hand timidly, as if it were the tentacle of a flagging octopus out of the water in a fisherman's basket begging for mercy or perhaps just making it known that it is still there, surviving in a hostile world.

Having no other options, I entered the store, ignoring the customers and the sparse staff, heading straight for you, like a dog rushing towards its master.

I figuratively arrived at your side with my tongue out, my heart in my hand, ready to offer it to you at the slightest excuse. In my haste, I almost bumped into you.

“Hello, Marcia!” I said, anxious.

You looked me up and down, slightly surprised by my impetus.

Then you burst out laughing with your wonderful laugh.

“You were spying on me? How long had you been out there?” you said, in a joking tone.

I sighed in relief. All your traffic light signals were green. I had dreamed of this reunion too many times, perhaps in a fancy restaurant downtown, at a table set with white tablecloths exquisitely embroidered with golden thread, comfortable red leather armchairs and cut crystal chandeliers, tasting a seafood dish and drinking a chilled imported white wine, served by elegantly dressed waiters, with pleasant jazz music in the background.

There we were, you and I, in a cheap store, trapped between rows of used silk skirts, worn leather jackets, and outdated shoes.

For lack of a better idea, I told you the truth.

“I was going to the supermarket, to pick up something for lunch. You know, some pasta, fresh tomatoes, some asparagus, olive oil. I'm pretty disorganized when it comes to shopping, and I realize at the last minute that I don't have the ingredients I need for the meal I have in mind.”

“Typical of you. And no wine?”

“I have a couple of bottles of Syrah from Napa Valley waiting for a special occasion.”

You stared at me for a few moments, studying me. You were probably weighing up the pros and cons of accepting my invitation to come to my house.

“Let's go to the supermarket, then. But I'm not promising anything. Okay?”

We walked leisurely down the busy avenue. You talked about your Angora cat, the plants on your balcony, and your yoga classes while I hummed to myself the melody of Paul Simon's Still Crazy After All These Years.

The world began to shine again for me.

Sometimes, I realized, life gives you a second chance without warning.

🩷🩷🩷

Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, journalist, playwright and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries around the world, including the US. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay