myself I would never normally divulge. I, Grace Miller, chatter like a schoolgirl. There is something about him that sets my tongue loose. I am sure I look surprised while I talk; it’s like listening to someone else. I tell him about going to Paris with Mama. The spontaneous holidays. The cafés, the pastries, the cups of dark coffee a young girl probably shouldn’t drink. He listens and smiles and fills my shopping basket. He laughs hard when I tell him about the time I accidentally tipped a tray of glasses filled with red wine on a customer in a cream wool sweater, and I feel my heart race strangely in my chest.
In less than twenty minutes my basket is piled high and heavy. Pata negra, marinated eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes. Too much food to eat, let alone carry.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve interrupted your shopping and here you are, having helped me with all mine.”
Léon lifts the basket from my arms and passes it to the girl behind the counter, who glances at us as she scans the items.
“Oh, of course,” I reply, nodding. He has a daughter.
I try to refuse his offer to drive me home, but he calmly insists.
“You have too many things,” he says simply. He plucks the shopping bags from my hands and puts them on the backseat. I get into the front seat and rest my hands in my lap.
“Okay, so where do we go?”
“Supreme Flower City, please.”
“The purple one?”
“Yes. Please.”
We drive in silence through the Taipa streets, lined with tall apartment buildings. Down the middle of our street a team of contractors is hanging up red and gold decorations. They are mostly depictions of rats, dancing and leaping in Chinese pajamas.
“You have just one daughter?” I ask.
“I have two.” He looks over his shoulder to change lanes. “Lila and Joy.”
“They’re pretty names.”
“ Oui. Pretty girls too.” He grins broadly. “And you?”
“Me? Oh, no. No kids.” Saying it aloud makes me feel filled with sand. You would think I’d be used to it by now. But he seems not to hear my answer, watching the road as we swing into a roundabout. Either that or he knows not to ask anything further. I hold my breath until the right amount of time has passed.
“Just here, thanks,” I say, pointing to the side of the road opposite the entrance to our block. After pulling over he hops out of his seat, leaving the engine running, and reaches for my bags in the back.
“You don’t have to …” I protest, but he carries them to the door, the car still running and keys in the ignition. Inside, the doorman watches us from behind his desk with a blank kind of stare.
“Thank you so much, Léon.”
“ Sans problème. It’s my pleasure. Enjoy your antipasti.” He smiles easily and waves as he jogs across the road to his car. I watch him leave and feel my pulse return to normal.
When I open our front door, the television is blaring, which gives me a fright. Pete is sitting on the sofa, wearing only a business shirt, tie, and boxers. I drop a bag on the floor. He looks over, unconcerned.
“Hey, the tennis is on. Thought I’d come home for lunch.” His head whips back to the screen. “That was out! Are you blind?”
I drag the bags to the kitchen and struggle to lift them onto the bench. A plastic container full of sun-dried tomatoes has split, and oil and tomatoes are all over the place. It is a mess but the smell is mouthwatering.
“Where were you?” Pete calls out.
“At the supermarket. I got us some antipasti for dinner.”
“Ah.”
“Léon was there.”
“Ah.”
“You know, Celine’s husband, the French guy? The chef?”
“Huh?”
“Léon. He helped me do the shopping.”
“Ah … Goddammit, he’s going to lose. What is wrong with this guy?”
I rip open a packet of buffalo mozzarella, ivory spheres floating in a milky womb. I drain the liquid and cut a thick, creamy slice. Placing one of my runaway tomatoes on top, I stand at the kitchen counter and eat, the yellow
In less than twenty minutes my basket is piled high and heavy. Pata negra, marinated eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes. Too much food to eat, let alone carry.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve interrupted your shopping and here you are, having helped me with all mine.”
Léon lifts the basket from my arms and passes it to the girl behind the counter, who glances at us as she scans the items.
“Oh, of course,” I reply, nodding. He has a daughter.
I try to refuse his offer to drive me home, but he calmly insists.
“You have too many things,” he says simply. He plucks the shopping bags from my hands and puts them on the backseat. I get into the front seat and rest my hands in my lap.
“Okay, so where do we go?”
“Supreme Flower City, please.”
“The purple one?”
“Yes. Please.”
We drive in silence through the Taipa streets, lined with tall apartment buildings. Down the middle of our street a team of contractors is hanging up red and gold decorations. They are mostly depictions of rats, dancing and leaping in Chinese pajamas.
“You have just one daughter?” I ask.
“I have two.” He looks over his shoulder to change lanes. “Lila and Joy.”
“They’re pretty names.”
“ Oui. Pretty girls too.” He grins broadly. “And you?”
“Me? Oh, no. No kids.” Saying it aloud makes me feel filled with sand. You would think I’d be used to it by now. But he seems not to hear my answer, watching the road as we swing into a roundabout. Either that or he knows not to ask anything further. I hold my breath until the right amount of time has passed.
“Just here, thanks,” I say, pointing to the side of the road opposite the entrance to our block. After pulling over he hops out of his seat, leaving the engine running, and reaches for my bags in the back.
“You don’t have to …” I protest, but he carries them to the door, the car still running and keys in the ignition. Inside, the doorman watches us from behind his desk with a blank kind of stare.
“Thank you so much, Léon.”
“ Sans problème. It’s my pleasure. Enjoy your antipasti.” He smiles easily and waves as he jogs across the road to his car. I watch him leave and feel my pulse return to normal.
When I open our front door, the television is blaring, which gives me a fright. Pete is sitting on the sofa, wearing only a business shirt, tie, and boxers. I drop a bag on the floor. He looks over, unconcerned.
“Hey, the tennis is on. Thought I’d come home for lunch.” His head whips back to the screen. “That was out! Are you blind?”
I drag the bags to the kitchen and struggle to lift them onto the bench. A plastic container full of sun-dried tomatoes has split, and oil and tomatoes are all over the place. It is a mess but the smell is mouthwatering.
“Where were you?” Pete calls out.
“At the supermarket. I got us some antipasti for dinner.”
“Ah.”
“Léon was there.”
“Ah.”
“You know, Celine’s husband, the French guy? The chef?”
“Huh?”
“Léon. He helped me do the shopping.”
“Ah … Goddammit, he’s going to lose. What is wrong with this guy?”
I rip open a packet of buffalo mozzarella, ivory spheres floating in a milky womb. I drain the liquid and cut a thick, creamy slice. Placing one of my runaway tomatoes on top, I stand at the kitchen counter and eat, the yellow
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