Saturday, noon

When I see the bulging bag in his hand, I realize that this is going to be one of those moments. We're both on our way in, off to do some grocery shopping, you might think. And it's weird, because I didn't even know that people like him do this sort of thing -- I mean, obviously they go to the shops, but not this -- he's a young white guy, nondescript really, does he even shave? Crew cut, but it's been a while. Small round glasses. I would have expected a gun, tons of ammo. The stuff you read about in the papers.

I'm sliding into a tiny space. Blurry round the edges. It's not even the bag, it's the thin cable protruding from it, it's the little device in his right hand, with the little button, right out of a movie. It's the way he's looking so very straight ahead, the way he's walking a hint too fast.

Yeah, no shit Sherlock. But I'm not really that observant, usually -- we're just star-crossed, almost bumping into each other, and now we're in the same space, him stiffly ploughing, me stumbling into it.

There are beads of sweat, just a few, on his neck. I can feel them looking at me, while he himself isn't. I stare right back.

So here it is.

He's really slim, haggard, almost unhealthy. Which means.

Which means that --

I could.

All these people in the supermarket, it's almost as if I can see every single one of them through the glass doors, going about their lives, unsuspecting. They are all so busy picking and weighing, making the little decisions that make up a life, that they never even notice the sliding doors. But then, why would they?

I've been working out lately, which sounds like a lame pick-up line, but it happens to be true. And now it's very handy, and terrifying.

Because it means I really could.

And then, I will sit in my kitchen, with a very nice journalist -- thanks but no thanks to the offer of wine at 11 am, slim hands, pretty smile, and she had this look on her face, as if a certain scenario was emerging in her mind, complimenting me on the working out, and how it all, indeed, worked out… ok, I guess that wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but still.

And then I will tell her. How it all worked out. How I grabbed him, pushed him to the ground. Stopped him in his tracks, right there in front of the sliding doors.

Only I won't, will I?

Tell the story, I mean. If I do it. Which I could.

Still.

Very still. The beads still staring. Still staring back.

In that kitchen, I will be alone. Reading. Same page over and over. My older sister Ava has just been round to see me. Nice, although she did have that look on her face, pitying, connecting all the dots on how I've dealt with the world so far, seeing a picture she knew would emerge.

And yet she was kind enough to try and give me a proper little pep talk. Because she worries. Wine at 11 am.

And then she leaves me alone. With my newspaper. All those people in the supermarket. When really, it should have been --

Different.

It's getting harder to focus, what with the beads starting to see a picture they knew would emerge, starting to mock.

I hear the soft scraping of the doors as they continue to slide open. I feel the cool breath of the AC inside.

I feel my eyes tighten round the edges. I feel my feet, like long-lost sons.

I've got to make my move.

Now.