Chapter 10 - Just an Aisle
One cold Thursday morning, years after the incident, Marcus pushed Mrs. Whitaker’s cart down the same cereal aisle.
She was slower now.
Her cane hooked over the cart handle.
Her red wallet sat safely inside her purse, clipped to a small chain Marcus had installed himself.
“You made me look ninety,” she complained.
“You’re eighty-two.”
“That is not ninety.”
“Close enough to secure the wallet.”
She smacked his arm lightly with the grocery list.
“Disrespectful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At the end of the aisle, a little boy knocked over a pyramid of apple bags and looked ready to cry.
His mother sighed in exhaustion.
Marcus bent down and began picking them up.
The boy stared at his tattoos.
“Are you scary?”
Mrs. Whitaker snorted.
Marcus looked at the child.
“Sometimes.”
The boy thought about that.
“Are you nice?”
Marcus picked up the last bag of apples and placed it back.
“Trying.”
Mrs. Whitaker smiled.
“That is the only honest answer.”
Marcus pushed the cart forward.
The fluorescent lights hummed.
The shelves were full.
No phones rose.
No one shouted.
May you like
No one fell.
And for once, the aisle was just an aisle.
