Aisle Five

My body recognizes him first, and my brain struggles to catch up with it. My stomach drops low as though I am on a boat at the mercy of the sea; my heart is suddenly pounding hard and fast; my hands begin to sweat. My feet are already planning their escape when her voice calls me out of it.

“Mama, Mama!” I look down at my four-year-old daughter, and her green-blue eyes look up at me as she points to the heart-shaped box of chocolates put in nearly every aisle for Valentine’s Day. I get down to her level, hoping maybe he won’t see me, maybe I can escape, but my heart is bounding, leaping in my chest. Calmly, I tell her that we won’t be getting chocolates today. But my mind is racing as I stand taking her hand. I look at my cart; I am nowhere near finished shopping, and now he is gone, and I search for him, the source of my agitation. He is here, somewhere in this store after all this time, after years; we are separated only by shelves, baked goods, and produce. I feel sick. I try to act normal, talking to my daughter as we get our groceries, the healthy, expensive items that she will refuse to eat and I will eat off her plate later because I can’t stand the waste. All the while, my heart pounds, and my legs begin to shake. My mind fills with questions like, “Does he dream of me?”

I dream of him often. Strange dreams where, as a grown man, he finds me and says we were never really broken up. Sometimes I am sent to the past, a girl again, and I can taste his lips and feel the roughness of his hands. I am reminded of a yearning that gently and patiently pushed limits. Then in other dreams he is a boy, and his dark eyes search my face, trying to find the girl in the woman I have become.

There is an announcement over the grocery store’s intercom that interrupts the music that floats through the aisles. My daughter is singing to herself as she walks between me and the cart. I apologise to a grey haired woman who has to swerve her cart around my child who is lost in her own internal mindscape, like mother, like daughter. We pass the wine shelf, and I wonder if he remembers, holding my hand as we went to the register and I bought my first legal bottle of red wine. I felt so sophisticated until I realized I didn’t have a corkscrew. I remember kissing until my lips hurt, laughing until my stomach ached, and the way he looked at me as though I was rare and precious.

Sometimes, it was like we were playing at being grown. He liked grand gestures and surprises. Birthdays and anniversaries were special when the years did not pass so quickly. Once, I arrived at school to find the inside of my locker was decorated with my favourite candies, and then, with permission from my parents, he filled my bedroom full of bouquets of flowers. He once made me a mixed CD and had written I love you over and over again around the middle of it, in writing so small it was nearly illegible. I wish I could find that CD now. I wish I could remember the songs he had selected just for me. We watched movies, listened to music, and made art together. I thought he was brilliant, hilarious, and beautiful. How can it be that almost two decades later I can still remember what it felt like when he held my hand?

My daughter and I make our way through the pasta aisle, and I try not to search for him. I try to focus on the tune that my daughter is singing instead of the feeling of dread that he might approach me at any moment, and both of us will be faced with the reality of what we have become.

“Mama? When I was a baby, did I sit here?” She points to the front of the cart.

“You did, sweetheart,” I tell her, and she smiles.

“I am too big now,” she tells me. “I am a big girl.” I nod and do a search for him again.

I check my grocery list and see that I need garbage and compost bags. We make our way down the next aisle, and my stomach crests over the rising wave of panic. There he is, different but the same, seasoned with time.

“Mama,” she calls out, and he looks in her direction, then he looks at me, and my chest burns when I see the recognition in his eyes. I can’t breathe. His eyes dart between the two of us, and even the four-year-old senses something and watches him wearily.

“Hi,” I say, about two meters away, the cart positioned between us. He pushes glasses up his long, narrow nose.

“Hi,” he says and nods at my daughter, who, after a long pause, also says,

“Hi,” in her keen voice. It makes him smile. He turns away from me and I begin to push my cart past him, deciding that we will pretend to be mere acquaintances when my body stops moving forward. My shoulder is parallel to the middle of his back. The words fall out of my mouth, my lips and throat urgently repairing what I broke at nineteen.

“I lied to you.” I speak it to the back of his head; he doesn’t turn around. It is better this way, I think. The words come out in a strange, crackly whisper, as though my teenage self has pushed back the cobwebs and come forward.

“I told you then that we needed to end it because I didn’t love you anymore. I said that because I didn’t know how else to end it. What I should have said was, 'I love you, but I don’t know how to grow with you.' I broke my heart too.” I watch his shoulder rise and fall with his inhale and sigh. He says my name, and my nose and eyes begin to burn. I look to my daughter instead of him as he turns around. She has wandered up the aisle to the colourful bottles of cleaning supplies. When I look back at him, he meets my eyes with a gentle caution.

“I know” he says, and he looks at my little girl, who is speaking softly to herself as she touches the bottles. Something within me settles.

“I didn’t always understand, but I do now. Are you happy?” he asks, and a tear escapes and rolls down my cheek.

“Yes,” I tell him, and I look at his face again, searching for the boy who loved me and not finding him.

“Good,” he says, and it hangs there between us, and I am unsure what to do. Part of me wants to ask him to go for a coffee, to talk about the old days, to reconnect, but I know even now where that could lead. Because it’s still there, the old wound. There is too much curiosity to find out if he still tastes the way I remember. My wedding band feels tight on my finger.

“And you?” I ask, but my daughter calls to me and starts running to the cart. I watch as she trips on her own feet and gravity launches her on the glossy concrete floor. Without thought my body propels itself to meet her, to cradle her in my arms. When I turn back to him he gives a knowing nod, gestures to his basket half-filled with groceries, and walks in the opposite direction disappearing down the aisle. I return to my daughter and coach her to take a deep breath. My own heart beat slows, the knot in my stomach finally loosens and I wipe away her tears.

“Everything is alright.”