Encounter at the counter

by Cliff Stinson

An early morning bicycle ride had left me infused with a warm glow, and now the crisp Sunday morning was mellowing into a warm spring day. Shopping list in hand, I strolled past the street side tables, watching the latte set as they watched the world drift by.

Entering the fruit shop I understood why the ancients imagined paradise to be a garden. Display boxes proffered their wares, the bounty of the earth, glorious, fragrant, delicious and wholesome. Colours and textures clamoured for my attention, each crying out “eat me.”  As if to complete this modern day Eden, standing by the cash register was Eve. Her luxurious hair and smooth skin spoke of her health and youth; her narrow waist and firm breasts gave a silent promise of yet another sort of bounty.

She turned in my direction and I hurriedly looked down at my shopping list, fearful lest my wistful gaze betray my longings; longing that could never be realised. She was, after all, no older than my daughter.  

As I passed the counter she called out something indecipherable. Was she talking to me?

“Pardon?” I enquired.

“Oh sorry, nothing. It’s alright.” Her timid smile conveyed embarrassment.

Unreasonable hope flared in my heart. Unseasonable youth quickened my pulse.

“Did you mistake me for someone else?”  

She smiled again, this time warmly. Returning her smile, I approached the counter, conscious of my appearance. Would she see my four-day stubble as reminiscent of Clint Eastwood in his early movies? No, these movies were made before she was born.

“My grandfather died recently and I really miss him.”  She looked at me, then away blinking quickly.

Her openness caught me by surprise. I didn’t pause to wonder why she felt the need to share her loss; all I could think of was how to take this opening and keep the conversation rolling. But there was no need; she was not finished.

“Your white whiskers remind me of him. You look like everybody’s favourite grandfather.” With a cheeky smile she added, “With Christmas approaching you could grow your beard and be a real-life Santa.”