At least I don’t think I am. I keep moving away from him before I can change my mind.
* * * *
The cashier’s hands tremble as she rings up my groceries. I’m sure she’s thinking I’m an i***t, out at a time like this, in the salt and the riots and whatnot, just for a frozen pizza and some cans of soda. I want to tell her I’m not that bad, really. I want to tell her not to worry, but I can’t find the words. If worrying is what’s going to get her through this, then let her worry.
I also don’t tell her about the cute guy in aisle five with the pistol down his pants. We just won’t go there.
I see him from the corner of my eye as she bags my things. He stands at the end of the line with his arms full of saltines and beer and chips, and he keeps looking around like he’s got something to hide. Y
