To the Lady in the Store

“Sign your name on the paper.” The saleslady wears a mask and gloves. “The wait is 20 minutes and then you get 20 minutes in the store.” I nod, measure the distance between me and the customer in front of me. Last week I hated the crowds, now I hate the separation, the wariness and unease that settles like a fine layer of mold in the spaces between us.

It’s one of those days at the beginning, but not the very beginning. School’s been canceled but we’re not on lockdown yet. We know things are going to get worse but our brains are still toying with what sort of legwear will go best with the toddlers’ Pesach dresses. The sequined socks are driftwood — and I’m holding on for dear life.

The owner comes by and glances at the older woman next to me speaking on the phone in rapid-fire Hebrew. “Don’t let her in,” she whispers to the masked sentry. “Find out what she needs and bring it out to her, it’s not safe for her to come inside.”

I want to cry because sometimes love looks cruel.