If You Could Imagine How Many Times

by Moshe Dann (August 2014)

“You were always telling me what to do,” Grace wanted to tell her Ex when she saw him down the aisle at the supermarket, looking at the shelf of condiments, his belly resting on the orange handle of a half filled cart, his balding head sparkling under the neon lights. “I wonder what he’s looking for?” she squinted, moving behind the shelf of oils next to the jams and jellies that tempted her. She wondered what else he intended to buy, remembering shopping together when they were still married and she still trusted him, before Diane came along, three years ago, and others Grace didn’t know about, his insurance office buzzing with clients and secretaries, busybusybusy.

She noticed Carlos, the produce manager heading towards huge steel grey flaps that hung over the opening which led into the storage area. Carrying two empty crates, his red-checkered shirt flaring, he disappeared into semi-darkness. She could duck into that area if needed, pretending to look for Carlos, asking for pineapples, or some exotic fruits that she knew would not be available, or ordered, even if she would ask. To ask is to want, that is the problem, and then, there was always JoAnne, who would seek her out like a hungry shark. Diane was probably waiting for her Ex at home.

Home, Grace thought, a cozy apartment in a new fancy building, not the suburban house where she lived, where they had lived, with their children, a boy and a girl, a dog, cats and rooms full of things she didn’t even know about. The kids were no longer kids. They were teenagers, a sub-category of human beings, closer to animals and birds, always moving, always eating, and forever unsatisfied, always complaining, like her Ex. But it was summer vacation, and she didn’t know where they were, or when they would return, and with whom, which was why she left a light on, always, to let them know, to let the whole world know, including her Ex, that she was home.

Suddenly Carlos emerged from his inner sanctum carrying a box of broccoli, his dark face shining triumphantly as if he had won the lottery. Focused on an empty place between the peppers and radishes, he didn’t notice her moving towards him. Aisles and displays arranged to trap innocent shoppers, a labyrinth without recognition, no place to hide.

Carlos saw her, waved extravagantly and smiled. Comforted, she smiled in return, but did not wave and pushed her shopping cart forward, glancing quickly around, suddenly bursting with hunger, watchful as she passed the instant soups, full of salt and chemicals, an easy fix. If her Ex appeared, she could detour quickly towards the rice and lentils. And, although Carlos was an attraction, he was also a distraction. Drawn towards the sweet fragrances of fruits and vegetables, she felt the need to risk. Carlos wiped his hands on his red-stripped apron and smiled again, a gold tooth glistening, babbling about the peaches that had newly arrived. He held one up and offered it to her.

“Oh,” she tried to seem startled, “it’s you.”  

“I wanted to tell you that I think of you, no, not that I want to start up with you, but just thinking about us, what happened, my need to be loved and taken care of, you know, what I was needing from you, and now that I have some perspective …” he looked towards the paper towels and tissues. “Perspective,” he repeated again slowly, deliberately. “I thought we should try to be friends, for the kids’ sake, let the war be over.”

“Well,” she began, finally, “I don’t know,” anvils of memory tied to her feet as she tried to swim, things she had come to accept about him, and others, not. A decent father, she conceded, but not her companion, at least not always, and not the one she could trust.  

“I needed you,” he leaned against his shopping cart, their bodies separated by metal baskets on wheels filled with things they needed to survive. “I wanted to explain,” he seemed suddenly like a child, lost, trying to explain who he was, and where he was going, not the man that was her Ex, who confused her with his demands, his needs that made her feel used and useless, unusable.   

And then, suddenly, the zinger, a spasm of affection reminding her of his calm self-assurance, her feeling overwhelmed  when they had fallen in love, his charming certainty that drew her to him, her need for security and home, unraveling into excuses, a voyage with no destination.    

“By the way,” he began softly, seductively, “do you have a policy? I mean, protection, in case, ah, something happens.”

Something happened. Something always happens. She wanted to run.

“And Labor Day weekend we’re going to be out on the Island. A client offered me his huge house. He’s going to Europe for the week. I’ll invite the kids, of course, and it would be great if you could come too. Any time. There’s plenty of room for everyone.”

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Moshe Dann is a writer and journalist living in Jerusalem. His next book, As Far As The Eye Can See, will be published by New English Review Press this September.

 

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