moment to reflect on this morning’s choice of clothing. My white T-shirt has moved across the color spectrum to dull gray, and my size 14 khaki skort, charming and carefree on the skinny catalog model, in reality resembles a potato sack. An unwashed ponytail, complete with aggressively split ends, does not help. I am the opposite of sexy. I am invisible.
“I don’t run,” the man says, looking down at his muddy shoes. His luscious red lips turn up in an automatic smile not reflected in his eyes.
“Are you . . . okay?” I ask, taking a step closer. “It’s just that you look . . . well, not so okay.”
The man smells dusty, like mothballs, as if he was just taken out of storage. Up close, a faint white residue stands out against the dark fabric of his suit. He looks beyond me, off toward the dental hygiene aisle, as if trying to orient himself in space and time.
“Yes,” he says. He goes for confident but misses the mark by a hair. “I’m fine. A rough start to the day, that’s all.”
On a typical weekday morning, the only shoppers in Target are moms or nannies. The suits, men and women alike, all got on the commuter train to the city hours ago. By now those suits have probably held two or three insanely productive meetings, made dozens of important decisions, had several cups of free-trade coffee, and squeezed in a quick game of squash at the New York Athletic Club. They are most certainly not standing around bewildered in Baby Products. A rough start, indeed.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask. I have no idea what I will do if he says yes.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” the man says, straightening his tie. He glances at a Patek Philippe watch that, from the looks of it, is better suited for an expedition to the South Pole than one to suburbia. “Really. I’m okay. I appreciate your concern.” His smile, now bright but still shy of genuine, indicates he’d like me to shove off. I can take a hint.
“Okay,” I say. “Great. You have a nice day.”
I begin to roll my cart away.
“Wait!” the man yells after me. His voice is just this side of frantic. “Would you please tell me what time it is? My watch appears to have stopped.”
“Nine thirty-seven.”
“And, well, I’m not sure quite how to ask this, but where exactly am I?”
What? I leave my cart and walk back. Standing directly in front of him, I gauge he is about six feet, two inches tall, with zero percent body fat. He probably comes by it naturally, too, which makes me like him a little less.
“Do you mean, where in the store or, you know, where in the universe?”
It’s a question I don’t think I’ve ever asked before. I wait while he considers his answer.
“I’d say more the latter.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have an accident?” I gesture to the hole in his pants. He glances down, surprised, and probes the wound with his fingers, wincing at the pain.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I fell?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I might be.”
I should call 911 and tell them to pack a straitjacket. The man studies my face.
“Do we know each other?” he asks.
I’m experiencing the same sensation. He’s familiar, but there is no way I’d forget meeting this guy.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think we do.”
“Curious,” he says.
“You’re in Billsford, New York,” I say. “Outside of New York City. Do you know what day it is?”
Again, he runs his fingers nervously through his hair. It stands up like porcupine quills. I can tell he’d hate knowing that.
“Billsford?”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?” I ask.
He holds his hands out in front of him. He wants to tell me, to explain, but he comes up with nothing.
“I think I should call for some help. I’m concerned you may have injured yourself when you fell. Do you feel light-headed?”
“No,” he says, looking around again. “But I do feel . . . strange.”
Yes. That seems to be going around
“I don’t run,” the man says, looking down at his muddy shoes. His luscious red lips turn up in an automatic smile not reflected in his eyes.
“Are you . . . okay?” I ask, taking a step closer. “It’s just that you look . . . well, not so okay.”
The man smells dusty, like mothballs, as if he was just taken out of storage. Up close, a faint white residue stands out against the dark fabric of his suit. He looks beyond me, off toward the dental hygiene aisle, as if trying to orient himself in space and time.
“Yes,” he says. He goes for confident but misses the mark by a hair. “I’m fine. A rough start to the day, that’s all.”
On a typical weekday morning, the only shoppers in Target are moms or nannies. The suits, men and women alike, all got on the commuter train to the city hours ago. By now those suits have probably held two or three insanely productive meetings, made dozens of important decisions, had several cups of free-trade coffee, and squeezed in a quick game of squash at the New York Athletic Club. They are most certainly not standing around bewildered in Baby Products. A rough start, indeed.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask. I have no idea what I will do if he says yes.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” the man says, straightening his tie. He glances at a Patek Philippe watch that, from the looks of it, is better suited for an expedition to the South Pole than one to suburbia. “Really. I’m okay. I appreciate your concern.” His smile, now bright but still shy of genuine, indicates he’d like me to shove off. I can take a hint.
“Okay,” I say. “Great. You have a nice day.”
I begin to roll my cart away.
“Wait!” the man yells after me. His voice is just this side of frantic. “Would you please tell me what time it is? My watch appears to have stopped.”
“Nine thirty-seven.”
“And, well, I’m not sure quite how to ask this, but where exactly am I?”
What? I leave my cart and walk back. Standing directly in front of him, I gauge he is about six feet, two inches tall, with zero percent body fat. He probably comes by it naturally, too, which makes me like him a little less.
“Do you mean, where in the store or, you know, where in the universe?”
It’s a question I don’t think I’ve ever asked before. I wait while he considers his answer.
“I’d say more the latter.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have an accident?” I gesture to the hole in his pants. He glances down, surprised, and probes the wound with his fingers, wincing at the pain.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I fell?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I might be.”
I should call 911 and tell them to pack a straitjacket. The man studies my face.
“Do we know each other?” he asks.
I’m experiencing the same sensation. He’s familiar, but there is no way I’d forget meeting this guy.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think we do.”
“Curious,” he says.
“You’re in Billsford, New York,” I say. “Outside of New York City. Do you know what day it is?”
Again, he runs his fingers nervously through his hair. It stands up like porcupine quills. I can tell he’d hate knowing that.
“Billsford?”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?” I ask.
He holds his hands out in front of him. He wants to tell me, to explain, but he comes up with nothing.
“I think I should call for some help. I’m concerned you may have injured yourself when you fell. Do you feel light-headed?”
“No,” he says, looking around again. “But I do feel . . . strange.”
Yes. That seems to be going around
Similar Books
