In Love

His jeans were starched and the most vivid shade of indigo I’d ever seen. His hair as white as the driven snow. His hands shook ever so slightly as he fumbled with his wallet.

I don’t get emotionally attached to many people. When I do, it’s intense.

On the matte, black conveyor belt that stood belly high to him there was a single stack of goods. Only closer inspection of the thin, rectangular boxes revealed their differences. Their waxed red exterior reflected the harsh flourescent light that shone down from above.

In my chest there was an unfamiliar twinge of discomfort. My heart.

The air had hardly been filled with silence, but the harsh beep of the scanner and the rustle of plastic as each box was rung-up and bagged struck my ears like a pick on ice. “Eight dollars.” His eyes were deep, intense, glossy.

I reached into my pocket, slid my fingers around my cell phone, gripped it tightly.

“Sir, eight dollars.” “Eig.. eight?” He repeated the amount as a question. A little louder the cashier responded. “Yes, Eight dollars, Sir.” His index finger was thick. The skin that covered it seemed impossibly thin in comparison. And pale. His veins, all visible, made a map on the back of his hand.

I am sometimes, often times, unreasonable in love.

I imagined they told a great story, could lead the way to the beginning of his life and back. The five dollar bill be pulled from his wallet was as fragile as he was. Tattered. Worn. The three one dollar bills that followed were as well.

I just wanted it to be over.

His walk was slow, labored, but not painful. He seemed to have all the time in the world and yet want none of it. Time crept. I watched, unable not to. Everything else faded. By the time he made it to the front door of the store I was only a few steps behind. Our feet hit the dark, wet pavement in synchronization. And then I veered to the left, leaving him behind. The sight, the sadness, the thoughts.

I breathed in the rain, pulled the cell phone from my pocket and there, right there in the dimly lit lot under the orange light and in the pouring rain, I dialed home.

It rang. He answered.

“Promise me one thing, when I die you have to eat. You have to live. You cannot buy ten TV dinners for the week. You just can’t.”

He agreed.

“I’ll eat.”

Understood.

“I love you.”

Reassured.

“Even when you’re crazy and unreasonable.”

Tagged as: Cultivate: Food, Death, life, Love, marriage, Men, photoblog