I Met You On a Monday

I’m scrambling, as I normally am, practically throwing things into a basket and not even worrying about the eggs I’m probably crushing with some peanut butter. I definitely look comical, speed-walking from aisle to aisle, at one point knocking over a display of organic macadamia nuts (of which no one in their right mind would ever consume). It has been one of the longest days of my life, but then again, they seem to be getting longer with every passing day. I laugh to myself, hating the sun for setting so soon, and hating time for passing so quickly. You’re relentless, I think, still wanting to be the peppy, positive person I push outwards so no one really sees how much I’m decaying on the inside. I continue on with my grocery grab-n-go that I’m so accustomed to by now, not noticing that I should’ve been home to let the dog out twenty minutes ago. 

I know it’s unreasonable to still hope that things change for the better without doing anything on my part, but of course, optimism is ancient by this point. I read articles (sent by my sister who thinks the world will end in two days time) about everything I’m doing wrong; the food I eat, the clothes I buy, the compost bin that I keep forgetting to fill with orange peels and apple cores. I just can’t help but feel defeated, knowing that even if I buy the right car or get the “right” food nothing is going to change. Everyone’s all, “one person can make a difference,” but what if the only difference I want to make is changing the clocks back so I get that one extra hour of sleep before heaving myself out of bed? What if I’m too tired? 

The fluorescent lighting glares down on me, taunting my skin and its ashiness. I grow increasingly aware of the volume of the people around me as I rip myself out of my own thoughts. My ankle gets hit by a shopping cart, but I’m too preoccupied to even notice the sting of the sharp metal and the quiet “sorry” that croaks from the elderly woman as I hurry towards the freezer aisle. I’m practically weaving through the clusters of people, already annoyed thinking about how long the lines will be at the register. I come often enough to know that a Monday night is probably the least ideal time to decide to restock my fridge, but all that’s left are some leftovers from when I was too tired to do it yesterday. Before I get to the aisle, knowing which one it is from having traced these same steps hundreds of times, something barrels into my back and knocks me to the floor. I’m about to hop up and yell at whoever wasn’t watching where they were going, but when I get up I see someone I don’t recognize.

I thought I knew everyone that lived around here, or at least the usuals who frequent this store, but I’ve never even seen him around town. He looks just as stressed as I do, although I can’t tell if it’s because he’s rushing to find something or because he just pushed me to the ground (I hope it’s the latter). He puts his hand on my shoulder and mutters a “sorry, are you alright” before walking off like it didn’t happen. Part of me wants to go after him and tell him off, but I’m barely even awake enough to care, and all I want is to leave. I can feel a bruise creeping up my spine, so I press it to the icy glass of the freezer, pausing just for a second. I see him come down the aisle, missing me for a moment, then he walks up to me slowly. The last thing I need is a stranger consoling me, but I don’t feel like moving so I stay there and don’t look up at him. He says “I’m sorry” once more, sounding more genuine at least, and hands me one of those stupid children's ice packs in the shape of a frog. I scoff, remembering ones like these from when I was a kid, and mutter “thanks” as I lift myself to my feet.

his eyes are kind, and the creases that frame them make me think he’s older than his demeanor makes him seem, but I feel myself soften a little when he smiles at me. he wavers, for a second, then says “It’s the least I could do” before strolling past me, not getting anything from the aisle he was just scanning through. My brain feels foggy after the interaction, and I’m not entirely certain of what just happened. I grab a couple frozen pizzas, the last thing on my list, and head towards the front of the store. 

I check out, doing some very quick and very inaccurate mental math to see how much I should be spending (as if I checked how much each item was), but I still feel the burn on the back of my neck when I see how much it totals up to. I grip my thigh but smile as I walk back to my car, already dreading tomorrow. I’m about to get in, and I see the same guy from before waving me over. I’m already too tired for whatever is about to happen, but for some reason I just sigh and walk over to his car. He’s holding a can of coke and offers an unopened one to me, gesturing at it with his eyes. I laugh, the sound of it ringing in my ears, and cautiously accept it. The light fizzle is soothing, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I had soda. We stand in silence for a moment, but I’m startled by his sudden movement when he turns and pulls himself up onto the top of his car. I stifle a laugh and ask what he’s doing, but he just tells me to climb up there with him. My mind is such a mess, but, strangely, I push my thoughts aside and just wonder, why the hell not.

I feel like a teenager, remembering the times when my friends and I would look out at sunsets from the top of my car and talk about absolutely nothing. He holds his drink out to me, and says “cheers,” so softly it settles the nerves in my stomach. I gently tap my can to his, becoming aware of how nice the quiet of the parking lot feels. Muffled Christmas music still streams out of the store, and the shaky rattle of shopping carts echoes, but I can almost hear the quiet whisper of the cold air settling on my nose and lips. I’m not thinking about anything at this point, other than the fact that my back is still hurting, the sharp pain now softened into a dull ache. I press the ice pack that I’m still holding to my spine and stay still so I don’t aggravate it. 

“Life feels like it’s going by too quickly” He says with his whispery voice that I”m now used to. I don’t know what to say at first, but I feel the pain shift from my back into my chest as the whirlwind of thoughts begins to return. “I agree,” I whisper back, “but I guess there’s not much we can do about that, can we?” I say it as a question, but mean it more as a statement. I can tell he’s thinking about it, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. I want him to disagree, but I think it’s a common ground that everyone shares at one point or another. It’s not like time is moving faster or slower at any given point, but sometimes the days slip away and I don’t even notice how long it’s been since that person texted or since I reached out to my sister. I wish I tried harder, but part of the whole time-slipping-by thing means that most days I don’t even remember to. 

After what feels like a couple minutes, he just says, “well,” and pauses before saying, “maybe this is how we do something about it.” He acts as though that’s an answer to the semi-question I prompted us both with, and that I should know exactly what he’s talking about. “What?” I say, needing more of an explanation. “By sitting here,” he says, “and by taking a few minutes to pause and remember how long a few minutes can feel.” I let this sink in for a moment, then look at him, asking with my eyes for him to say more. “You seem like you’re running a race with Time, who’s going to win no matter what if you keep thinking about how it’s always ahead of you.” “If you just take a second and breathe, count the seconds, maybe it’ll remind you that a few minutes can feel like forever too.” I just look at him, open my mouth as if I have something to say, then look down at my drink. After another minute, I ask him, “how did you guess that I was that kind of person? The kind who’s always running out of time?” 

He looks at me and smiles, and I look back at him expectantly (probably tiredly as well). “Everyone’s that kind of person,” he says, and we sit there, counting the seconds as if they’re hours.