the shoe shop, only a block away. Entering, we mock the majority of the foot-torturing accessories displayed. On the back wall, I find what I’m seeking—a pair of clear acrylic five-inch heels with clear straps, rhinestones across the toes, and a one-inch platform. I smile. They’re worthy of melting any stripper’s heart. A short time later, shoes in hand, we leave the store and head to Angel’s car.
That evening, bubbling with anxiety, I make a run to the market to pick up a few things. As I round the corner to head down the last aisle, the one closest to the produce, I’m surprised to spot him— Carlos. Although he is turned away from me, I recognize his back and tease of dark curls accenting his tanned skin just above the collar.
My heart skips a beat. My tongue grows thick in my mouth, and I swear I’ve forgotten how to speak once again. Ignoring the betrayal of my body, I head toward the stack of cantaloupes, right beside him. The closer I get, the clammier my palms become, and I have to readjust my grip on the hand basket lest it slip from my hands. How should I initiate contact this time? Already done the dropping-of-groceries ploy. Probably should go with a new approach this time. I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll try the less dramatic, yet still effective, “hello.”
I take my time approaching. Like a lioness closing in on its prey. No need to hurry. I watch him. Scrutinize his movements. Relish every delicious step that brings me closer to him. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Wait! From behind one of the display tables, a boy of about four speeds his way toward the man—my man. He’s clutching a small bunch of bananas. “Daddy! Daddy! Are these good?”
I freeze.
His back still turned to me, Carlos reaches down and lovingly scoops up the boy, bananas and all. The child shoves the fruit so close to his father’s face that Carlos is forced to lean back to focus, and then he says, “They’re perfect. Good job.”
Before Carlos has a chance to turn, I abruptly change course and head toward the farthest checkout. All the while, my mind is rapid-firing questions. A son? He didn’t mention a son. But then we didn’t really have much of a conversation. Married?! Is Carlos married? If so, where’s the boy’s mother? This could change everything, making Carlos off limits. Shit!
Unease
I purchase my items, barely hearing the checker when she tells the amount. Gathering my bags, I head to my car. My mind swirls and protests against what I saw—Carlos with…a son. I quicken my pace. Want outta here. To create distance between what is threatening to foil my fantasies about him and me.
Halfway to my car, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. Thinking Carlos may have spotted me and is coming out, I don’t turn but walk faster. Anxious to make it to my car. Don’t want to see him. Not now. Can’t. Gotta think this through first.
Each step I take convinces me I’m being watched. Followed. Expect to hear Carlos call my name any minute. I approach my car. Fumble with the keys. Get in. Backing out of my space, I look around, thinking I’ll spot him. I don’t. What? But why did I feel watched? Followed? If not Carlos, then who? Jesus! I really gotta get a grip.
Princess greets me at home and shadows me as I put away the few things I purchased. I click off the downstairs lights and head upstairs, anxious to work things out in my journal. Sitting on my bed, I write:
What’s going on with Carlos? A son? Never occurred to me. But married? What if she was there? Watching? Okay, that puts a different spin on things. Slow down. Don’t get carried away. Maybe he’s divorced. Didn’t seem like the cheating kind. What am I saying? I don’t even know him. Besides, what’s the “cheating kind” look like? And then there’s the whole felt-like-I-was-being-followed thing. But when I looked…nothing. Maybe I’m just stressed about my first class tomorrow. Mind’s working overtime. That’s gotta be it. I hope.
I close my journal. Reach down to pet Princess. Turn off the light and go to sleep. But mine’s a restless one, filled with bizarre dreams.
Walking my neighborhood. Darkness surrounds. Eyes. Cruel ones. My house. Winding streets. Rogue onions rolling amok in the parking lot. First one. Then a truckload. I’m buried alive by them. Choke and gag on their peeling skins—what’s revealed. More eyes— watching. Warning flags. Past. Present. Future. Shared laughter. Healing. Darkness. Time/space shopping continuum. Day indiscriminately meshing into the veil of darkness. Race of a lifetime.
I awake as always from my premonition dreams, bolting upright, covered in sweat. What the hell? Thought they were gone. Haven’t had one in…forever. Why the hell won’t they leave me alone? Or at least give me something I can work with. Hate how the images they present are so jumbled. Can’t make heads or tails of them. Only after, then I know what they were trying to foretell.
I feel the start of a headache. Always get one after my visions. Wish they’d come when I’m awake. But no, they always invade my sleep. Maybe if I were awake during them, I could make sense of them.
Though I know it’s useless, I try to fit the fragmented pieces of my premonition dream puzzle into place. My headache worsens, and the images from my dream fade into uncertainty before I can connect them. Fuck!
I lie down and stare at the ceiling for a long time before exhaustion and sleep overtake me.
The Waiting Game
He slides down in his car seat, watching the car pull up in front of Sally’s. Narrows his eyes, recognizing the driver.
Fuckin’ cunt—Angel!
Sally gets out of the passenger seat, grabs a bag, waves and heads inside as Angel drives off.
How dare she be happy.
He curls the side of his mouth into an evil sneer.
That’ll change. Always does when I make my point. And I’ve been so good at that.
He leans his head back and settles in. Doesn’t mind waiting. It’s part of the game. And he likes games. Is good at them. Waiting. Calculating. Figuring out his best advantage.
A while later, he hears a car backing down her driveway.
So, where we going?
He follows her from a safe distance, one not to raise her suspicion—at least, not yet. They drive a bit, and he recognizes the path she’s taking.
The market, huh?
Sally pulls in the lot well ahead of him. He passes that entry, opting to circle around the corner and pull in another. She’s already walking into the store when he enters the lot. He parks a few aisles over from her car. Turning off his engine, he resumes
