Still, the thought of that girl at the gas station trailed in my mind, like an image burned into my retinas from staring at a light for too long. She was tall, with dirty blonde hair that hung in a long ponytail and bangs that swept her face. She’d had on a green, military style jacket over a v-neck shirt and ripped jeans that hugged long legs. She was very slim and fit. Younger girls were able to burn the weight so easily. 22 was when I started to hit the gym hard, because I found that the repetition and the mental discipline required was quite similar to the skills I used to create my pottery. These
days, at 34, it was becoming an uphill battle to keep the weight off. I knew I was in pretty damn good shape, but it was hard not to feel flabby constantly, especially because I hadn’t been in a gym in ages.
There was something else about her that stuck in my head. I’d only seen her for a second and from a distance, but there was something about the look she carried on her face… She was pretty, but that wasn’t the only thing. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t so much the expression, as something that lingered behind it. Maybe it reminded me of myself. I wasn’t sure. I’d only seen her for a moment, after all.
I wandered around the market in a bit of a daze, not really thinking about anything in particular, but still had that girl’s image bouncing around in my head. I forced myself to divert my thoughts to my new furry friend, and the bowls that I was making. The first—the one that I would glaze the moment I got home—I’d made to use as a food bowl, but it was probably too large for that purpose. I’d made four others, all of varying sizes. One was probably a more fitting size, and the three others were just sort of random and likely would end up in the trash can later.
It’d been so long since I’d produced work that I wasn’t immediately smashing into a lump.
I picked out a whole chicken that was on sale and put it in my basket, along with some fresh vegetables. The meat was pretty expensive, but the vegetables were cheap and much better than anything I could’ve gotten in a store back in New York. It was one of the perks of living out here—we did have access to some great produce.
Who was she?
I put my groceries on conveyor belt and stared off into space as the elderly checkout lady scanned the items.
“Sixty-nine,” the woman said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Uh, sorry?” I asked, smiling apologetically.
“Twenty-two sixty-nine. Your total.”
“Oh, right.”
I paused and frowned, reading the text. And that’s when I saw it.
“Um,” I said, pointing. “I think… you overcharged me for the chicken. It said it was on sale for $3 a pound.”
She straightened her glasses and double-checked a little binder of coupons she had next to the register. “Oh, you’re so right. I’m sorry.”
I smiled, paid the new price, and then bagged the groceries myself. It was quite warm out, so I put the bag in my trunk and drove the short distance down to the pet store. I’d just be in and out to grab some kitty litter and pet food.
“Hi there, welcome to Pampered Paws, I’m Patty. Anything I can help you with?”
The woman behind the register smiled a dazzling smile that was outlined with bright red lipstick that seemed to be twenty years out of style, and the loudest outfit I’d ever seen. “I’d like to buy some kitty litter and cat food,” I told her.
“Sure thing, that’s right over there.” She pointed.
I selected a small bag of generic kitty litter and a small bag of dry cat food, paused, and then put them back and exchanged them for larger bags. Why shouldn’t I keep him? Turn him over to Pampered Paws and he probably would never be adopted, considering the customer base here probably changed every 50 years.
I lugged the bags onto the counter, and the lady scanned them. “You a new owner? I’ve never seen you around before,” she said, smiling brightly.
“Yeah, something like that,” I said. “Actually, I found this cat just out in the storm the other day.”
Patty’s smile disappeared. “Really? Is he a black cat?” she asked.
I frowned. “Yes?”
“Oh my goodness! That young lady is going to be so relieved. Ma’am, I think you rescued this cat that’d been reported missing just the other day!” She whipped out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“Missing: Henry. Black cat, five months old,” I said, reading the paper. My heart was already beating fast, but then I read the number to call. Reynold? Young lady?
My mind immediately went to the newcomer I’d seen at Reynold’s gas station. My little guest is her cat? My vision blurred out for a moment as I registered what it all meant.
“Does that sound like your rescue?” she asked hopefully.
“Ah,” I replied, blinking. “Yeah… I guess it does. I guess I’d better call her. Or hell, Reynold is just down the road. I’ll just stop in.” Stop in and meet that girl too.
I had to. After all, I probably had her cat.