She'll Take It by Mary Carter

fleshy skin that belongs to another woman.
    Another woman is holding my scarf. My scarf looks tiny in her large fleshy arm. Now she is putting my scarf in her cart. She throws it on her heap like adding salt to a stew and takes off without so much as a backward glance. “Hey!” I shout, but she doesn’t even turn around. In fact, she’s picking up speed and I have to jog to catch up with her. “Hey!” I say again.
    She makes a left near the bras and panties. She’s trying to lose me! I zigzag around a table of scented candles and cut her off in front of women’s watches. She still hasn’t spoken to me, won’t even look at me. I’ve got her boxed in though; the only direction she can turn is right, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen. She tries to take the right, but I head her off at the pass. I reach out with my foot and lodge it underneath the cart, bringing it to a dead squealing stop. She treats me as if I’m the sun and she’ll be blinded if she looks directly at me. With her head held straight, she slides her eyes to the right and studies me like a bird of prey.
    â€œExcuse me,” she says as if I’ve done something wrong and shoves the cart forward with gusto. Even if I want to retract my foot (which I don’t) it’s too late. It’s stuck in the spokes, and when she pushes the cart, my foot stays in place, but the rest of my body falls at a ninety-degree angle. As I hit the floor, I pray to the Saint of Stupid People Tricks that I won’t be maimed for life. How can I show up to work with a peg leg? With detached curiosity, I hear someone screaming and wish they would stop. Later, I realize it’s me. The pain is bypassing my head and hurling straight out of my mouth. “Help, help!” I yell. Then, like a Fellini film, suddenly I’m surrounded by large women with blue eyeshadow and clown cheeks. We have attracted a crowd of elderly women, and my nemesis is already trying to sway the jury.
    â€œShe put her foot right in my cart. Just jammed it right in there.” The old ladies look from her to me, back to her. I open my mouth to defend myself but a moan escapes instead. My foot really, really hurts. “What were you thinking?” the fleshy-armed scarf stealer shouts at me. From my position on the floor I can see her jowls bounce up and down as she screams. Flicks of spit dangle off her upper lip threatening to drip on me with the next shake of her head. I throw my arms up to protect my face from her spittle, and I instantly win the sympathy vote.
    â€œLeave her alone!” one woman shouts. “Help her up,” another one says.
    I’m no dummy; I strike while the iron’s hot. “My scarf!” I cry. “That’s my scarf.” I point dramatically to the top of her heap.
    â€œYour scarf?” the woman says, grabbing my misty green savior and kneading it in her sweaty fingers. “No siree. This here is my scarf.” She takes the scarf and sinks it into the depths of her cart. I glance at the crowd. They’re starting to frown. They’re not sure who to believe. “She’s stalking me!” the woman cries. “She’s stalking me and my cart. Took her foot and jammed it right in there!”
    I don’t have a great reply so I start to cry. It comes easy to me these days. Even Tampax commercials make me cry. (You go girl! You go horseback riding!) “It’s for my mother,” I gasp. “My mother whom I haven’t seen in—ten years.” I’m wailing now; I’m the antifeminist. I throw a quick apology to the Saint of Gertrude Stein not to cancel my membership, but I can’t stop now—I’m winning over the grandmothers in the crowd, of which there are many.
    Three have knelt down by me—two of them are gingerly removing my ankle from the cart, and a third wipes my tears with a hanky that smells like cinnamon. At his