Vignettes

"Would you like some help out with that?" she asks, politely but with disinterest, looking already ahead to the next customer in line and gauging the size of the order by how full the cart is. I reply in the negative, and move along into the main exit aisle, noting her quick check of the clock and empathizing with her unspoken desire to be elsewhere.

As the automatic doors part before me, I scan the parking lot for the tell-tale pod to make sure I haven't confused today's parking spot with yesterday's. Cooking for 5 plus friends makes me a regular at the neighborhood grocery. But the car's parked right where I left it, and I cross toward it as quickly as traffic will permit. The young man in the diesel pick-up reluctantly makes eye contact, then realizes I don't intend to cut in front of him, his faint smile and the smell of exhaust my only reward for patience.

Having loaded my purchases into the back of the car, I turn to take back the cart when the uneven rhythym of her gait catches my eye. Disdaining the handicapped parking, she makes her way determinedly from the North 40, staying close to the line of parked cars and keeping her eyes on the front of the store. I ask if she'd like my help, but she either doesn't hear or declines to reply, so I move in order to secure her attention. Pushing the cart in front of me, I ask -- rather loudly -- whether I can keep her company on the way to the sidewalk. Bewildered momentarily by my intentional disruption, she gazes at me, then smiles broadly as comprehension dawns. She places her purse in the front and takes the cart as she resumes her solo assault on the entrance.