** My Love **

Wedges between a beer bellied old man and a tower of triple A batteries.
“Scuse me…” she mumbles. Smiles. Goes through the motions.
Hate grocery shopping. Six deep. It’s always six deep.
The checker makes her way through a pile of frozen dinners while her customer shoves coupons under her nose. Slowly. Bored.
Blows the bangs out of her eyes and bends over to lean on the cart. Does a double take at the crud village taking up residence beneath the transparent handle. Thinks better of her stance – stands. Uggh.
Her cell vibrates in her back pocket. She retrieves it, slides it open. It’s him.
Did you get hotdogs?
She frowns. Peers into her shopping cart. Filled with… crap.
Notices it then. The sad state of her adulthood. Man, I suck at this. Moves a few boxes around. It’s quite apparent.
Noodles. No sauce. Peanut Butter. No jelly. Eggs…. I don’t even really eat eggs. For the record, he doesn’t either. A basket full of pieces.
No hotdogs. I should get hotdogs. She thinks it. Knows it, really. Knows more that she won’t go back for them. They’re out of buns at the house, anyway.
She texts him back:
They’re out of hotdogs.
Out of hotdogs? Wtf?
Out of hotdogs.
Um… okay?
Sorry.
It’s a stupid lie. She knows it. They always have hotdogs.
Gives up. Returns the phone to her back pocket. Leans into the crud village – fuck it.
It’s taking… forever. The checker up there trying to explain to a customer why she cannot ring up expired coupons – lady’s not having it. Slap her. Just… reach over and… sla-
Sees him. Stops. Watches.
He’s adorable. Khaki pants pulled up mid waist, cinched tight by an old, worn out leather belt. Wrinkled flannel shirt. A combat coat one could spend hours reading – each story etched into its threads like the wrinkles on his kind face.
He stands between the two lines – hunched over, holding a handful of grapefruits, a bag of sunflower seeds, the weight of years past – his eyes darting from one to the other, calculating.
 Two deep. She’s next.
“Sir?” She reaches for him, thinks better of it. Pulls away.
His smile is crooked. Genuine. He reaches up, touches the brim of an old navy hat, adorned with pins and relics – memories of another place and time, perched atop his head. Gestures, gently, with the down half of a nod.
“Please…” she side steps, motions ahead of her. Can’t help but smile back. His face lights up, the wrinkles rising in unison, like waves – gather beneath his cap.
“Oh…” he gasps, shuffling forward a step, “… yes…” another step. He shifts his modest groceries into the crook of his arm, reaches for her hand with the other.
She feels his fingers – nobby, yes. Leathery, of course. But delicate, too. They surprise her. Elegant strength. Hands that protect. Soothe. Honest hands. She loves him then, this little old man with his slip-on shoes, his curved back. His beautiful hands.
“Thank you lass,” he smiles to her, “you’re wonderful,” sweeps her hand up and places a tender kiss. Does a half turn to scan the dense crowd.
His face glows when he pinpoints his target, the light damn near blinds her.
“My Love!” He calls out, his voice reflecting a smile. “Over here My Love!”
The old woman is beautifully frail – limbs long and bony, paper thin. She cradles a half-carton of milk. Smiles upon her approach.
“My Love,” he beams, “this beautiful young lass is letting us ahead…”.
My Love smiles, gestures a warm thank you as the old man softly releases her hand, places it lovingly at the small of his wife’s crooked back.
Her throat catches – words run over words as she blinks away moisture. Barely contained, smiling, she watches the pair shuffle in unison ahead.
Sometimes people are beautiful.