from Cafe Busted. She was about to turn into the bodega when she spotted Miriam, carrying a pocketbook and walking down the avenue. Ceinwen paused a moment, then followed.
Now here was behavior Talmadge could justifiably call obsessive, but maybe she’d spot Miriam meeting someone and get an idea of where she was always going. She kept following until Miriam turned into the Key Food near Fourth Street. Ceinwen stood on the sidewalk, dumbfounded. Grocery shopping. How’s that for boring. Served her right for being so nosy. She was about to turn and go back to the bodega, when it occurred to her that while she’d always been afraid of the big, ill-kept, funny-smelling Key Food, the coffee selection might be worth the risk.
She didn’t know how she was going to translate groceries into a conversation about Jean Harlow’s underwear, but she’d at least get a chance to try. And what else did she have to look forward to? More books. Recording more movies off the TV. More cigarettes, more planning her outfits. Tomorrow maybe lunch with Roxanne and a long talk about how Roxanne’s boyfriend never wanted to go out anymore because he was studying for the bar. She pumped on her toes in front of the automatic door for a minute, trying to get the sensor to sense her and thinking, I’m not
that
short, when a man swept around her and pushed it open. She followed.
How did Miriam find anything here, wondered Ceinwen, as she surveyed the sad-looking produce and the large, malformed root vegetables she’d never seen or even heard of before. She turned to walk down the back, checking each aisle for Miriam. Lots of mothers with fussy kids, a number of tired-looking men, nobody her age. She turned into the coffee aisle and grabbed a can of Melita, then walked back again and checked another aisle. Back in Yazoo City the Winn-Dixie was huge and spotless, and the aisles were so wide you could fit four or five carts across each of them. Everything in this place was narrow and dirty. So was the bodega, but at least it was manageable: you didn’t have to waste all this time trying to figure out where everything was.
There was Miriam, a basket over her arm, running her finger down a row of canned goods. Ceinwen checked the aisle sign to prepare her make-believe shopping mission. Soup. She hadn’t bought canned soup since she’d cooked for Granana, but it wouldn’t kill them to have some around the apartment. She breathed out, which was what Talmadge always told her actors did to warm up, and walked behind Miriam.
“Hey, Miriam.” Miriam didn’t jump. It was a good question as to what would make her jump. She turned and gave the slightly friendlier look she’d been giving for a couple of weeks now, the sides of the mouth almost going up, but not quite.
“Hello,” said Miriam. And went back to the shelf. Ceinwen checked the cans beyond Miriam’s arm.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to reach the”—she scanned—“minestrone.” She hated tomato soups.
“Please,” said Miriam, and stood aside. Then, “I’m trying to pick out a stock. Do you have a favorite?”
Stock? What—wait, that was a cooking word for broth. She’d heard Jim use it.
“I always get what’s cheapest,” said Ceinwen. “My grandmother used to say they were all the same.”
“She’s probably right,” said Miriam. She took two cans off the shelf and put them in the basket, next to a quart of milk, onions, and greens. An old lady shouldn’t have that much on her arm.
“Let me carry that for you,” said Ceinwen.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“No, really,” insisted Ceinwen, putting her hand on the handle, “we’re going the same way, and all I needed was coffee. And soup,” she remembered to add.
Miriam hesitated, then handed it over. “That’s very kind of you.” Ceinwen tossed her coffee and soup in the basket—maybe Jim liked minestrone—and they started toward the checkout line.
“I was talking to my roommate Talmadge the
Now here was behavior Talmadge could justifiably call obsessive, but maybe she’d spot Miriam meeting someone and get an idea of where she was always going. She kept following until Miriam turned into the Key Food near Fourth Street. Ceinwen stood on the sidewalk, dumbfounded. Grocery shopping. How’s that for boring. Served her right for being so nosy. She was about to turn and go back to the bodega, when it occurred to her that while she’d always been afraid of the big, ill-kept, funny-smelling Key Food, the coffee selection might be worth the risk.
She didn’t know how she was going to translate groceries into a conversation about Jean Harlow’s underwear, but she’d at least get a chance to try. And what else did she have to look forward to? More books. Recording more movies off the TV. More cigarettes, more planning her outfits. Tomorrow maybe lunch with Roxanne and a long talk about how Roxanne’s boyfriend never wanted to go out anymore because he was studying for the bar. She pumped on her toes in front of the automatic door for a minute, trying to get the sensor to sense her and thinking, I’m not
that
short, when a man swept around her and pushed it open. She followed.
How did Miriam find anything here, wondered Ceinwen, as she surveyed the sad-looking produce and the large, malformed root vegetables she’d never seen or even heard of before. She turned to walk down the back, checking each aisle for Miriam. Lots of mothers with fussy kids, a number of tired-looking men, nobody her age. She turned into the coffee aisle and grabbed a can of Melita, then walked back again and checked another aisle. Back in Yazoo City the Winn-Dixie was huge and spotless, and the aisles were so wide you could fit four or five carts across each of them. Everything in this place was narrow and dirty. So was the bodega, but at least it was manageable: you didn’t have to waste all this time trying to figure out where everything was.
There was Miriam, a basket over her arm, running her finger down a row of canned goods. Ceinwen checked the aisle sign to prepare her make-believe shopping mission. Soup. She hadn’t bought canned soup since she’d cooked for Granana, but it wouldn’t kill them to have some around the apartment. She breathed out, which was what Talmadge always told her actors did to warm up, and walked behind Miriam.
“Hey, Miriam.” Miriam didn’t jump. It was a good question as to what would make her jump. She turned and gave the slightly friendlier look she’d been giving for a couple of weeks now, the sides of the mouth almost going up, but not quite.
“Hello,” said Miriam. And went back to the shelf. Ceinwen checked the cans beyond Miriam’s arm.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to reach the”—she scanned—“minestrone.” She hated tomato soups.
“Please,” said Miriam, and stood aside. Then, “I’m trying to pick out a stock. Do you have a favorite?”
Stock? What—wait, that was a cooking word for broth. She’d heard Jim use it.
“I always get what’s cheapest,” said Ceinwen. “My grandmother used to say they were all the same.”
“She’s probably right,” said Miriam. She took two cans off the shelf and put them in the basket, next to a quart of milk, onions, and greens. An old lady shouldn’t have that much on her arm.
“Let me carry that for you,” said Ceinwen.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“No, really,” insisted Ceinwen, putting her hand on the handle, “we’re going the same way, and all I needed was coffee. And soup,” she remembered to add.
Miriam hesitated, then handed it over. “That’s very kind of you.” Ceinwen tossed her coffee and soup in the basket—maybe Jim liked minestrone—and they started toward the checkout line.
“I was talking to my roommate Talmadge the
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