Nicole Meza
I watched him graze his fingers along the varied selection of fruits and vegetables. Cabbage, asparagus, green onion. . . I don’t know what I was expecting from this stranger as my eyes drifted and followed in pursuit. When I usually shop, I don’t find strangers so fascinating, but this time was different. Of course, it was different. I was different now, so this was different. I had been changed. Apparently, to be loved means to be changed and I was changed. Does that mean what he did to me was love? I think about this all the time. To be marked means something. It changes who you are and how you function in life. It changes your perspective on the world. At least it did for me.
After eating nothing but box after box of Russell Stover’s 16 oz set of assorted creams, I realized I might need something else besides sugary and temporary comforts. So, I did come here with a purpose. I was going to be productive in some way. Though taking a shower did not wash away the feeling of dirty, nor did putting on clean clothes after only wearing the same pair of pajamas for a week straight strip me of that sticky feeling on my skin. Going outside and allowing the sun to splash onto me did not feel like healing either. Finally getting out of bed, finally showering, finally getting dressed, finally going outside did not feel satisfying, but watching him felt more meaningful than anything I could be doing since it happened.
He was tall, maybe in his mid-thirties, around 6’1 or 6’2. He had short black hair with strokes of silver peppered throughout what looked like thin hair. He was handsome though, nonetheless. He had deep brown eyes and dressed quite well. He wore a long-sleeved tan sweater with black slacks and black loafers to match. On his left hand sat a thick gold wedding band on his ring finger, to remind the world that he was a married man. He wore glasses with thick black square frames that were unflattering to his face but did not diminish his overall style. Was he a teacher? An artist? A banker? Maybe he worked in stocks or ran a small coffee shop or worked at the local library. Is he in love with his partner? Does he cheat on his partner? Does he treat them well? I fantasized and imagined stories about his profession and personal life as he settled in the fruit section. He casually glanced up and exchanged a small smile with a gentle acknowledging nod to the male produce worker in the aisle in front of him. Neither had noticed my presence or my eyes tracking their movements. Neither had any awareness of the patient watcher behind them.
The man stroked his fingertips across the nectarines, the peaches, and the apricots. He tested their firmness, but his attention became captivated by a small batch of dark burgundy plums. One of the plums caught his eye. It was small, delicate, and had a soft bruise on its side. He took his index finger and gently pushed on the bruise, testing its durability. I wondered how many hands had been on that plum. How many index fingers had gently pushed? How many saw the bruise, but still pushed anyway? How many had wanted to test it? How many were simply curious and wanted to feel the sensation of the bruise under the pressure of their weight? Did he do it to feel powerful, is that why? Why that plum? Why that particular plum? Why me? The man grazed over to a different plum, a firmer plum, and added it to his basket. Was he unaware that his finger worsened the plum’s injury or was he just unphased, uncaring, unbothered by it? He walked away to finish the rest of his shopping.
I decided to walk over to where he once stood, and I examined the hurt plum more closely. The bruise was already a deep dark blackened purple compared to the rest of its burgundy skin. It is laying almost pathetically among other plums. I wondered about how many other plums are left with the unwanted imprints of strangers. I took my thumb and placed it on the bruise. I began to press down hard. I pressed harder and the plum’s skin punctured easily. The blood red juice began to burst underneath my nail bed and overflow around my thumb. I kept pressing down. I pressed down so hard until my thumb reached the pit. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing to be honest, but I removed my thumb from the wounded plum. It didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve that. I looked up to finally realize that the male produce worker had finally noticed me. The worker merely walked over and removed the plum and discarded it into a bin. I couldn’t help but let out a scoff. A punishment befitting the crime, I suppose. The plum gets tossed away for a wound that it did not ask for. Life goes on. He and I stared at each other for a while. We stared at each other and reflected apathy back at one another. Is this what he felt? Is this what they all feel?