“Just this?” she asked with a corner store veteran’s ease.
“Yeah,” he stated, staring down at his items. She scanned the two tall cans and the pack of gum — each beep so loud.
“Hiding it?” She nodded at the gum, a smile growing on her face.
“What?”
“Hiding it from someone. The missus?” She stared out at him under furrowed brow trying to catch his eye. “The mister?” She laughed.
“Ain’t got no one to hide it from. I just don’t take a liking to the aftertaste,” he grasped his elbow tightly. His clothes were stained, and his hair was short and filthy.
“Right, right,” she pushed the items to him over the unscratched lottery tickets staring up to sweet freedom in their clear glass cage.
“This second one’s on me. You look like you could use it.” She smiled and stroked a couple keys on the register to remove one of the beers.
“Thanks. Can I get a bag?” He couldn’t meet her gaze that was fixed on him.
“Like I said; hiding it from someone. I getcha.” She chuckled and whipped open a black plastic bag with the ease a matador whips his red velvet cape.
“No. You don’t ‘get me’. I just have a long walk. Not trying to carry it all that way in my hands.”
“You got a lot on your hands. I getcha, honey,” she said with an air of sweetness.
“Thanks.” He snatched the bag from her grasp and exited the store with a ding.
* * *
“Hey, sweetheart,” said the woman, the wrinkles in her face arched and bent as she spoke, “long way to walk now, ain’t it?” She traversed the small, empty parking lot under the gray gloom of winter. He looked up at her, shrugged, and patted the curb next to him as he cracked open the second tall can and handed it to her.
“Thanks for the beer,” she said.
“Yeah, well I guess. Thank you for the free one.”
“Hey, I believe that a kindness is best shared — like one of them ‘pay it forward’ sort of deals.”
“That works pretty good, especially if you’re on the other end of it.” He smiled for a second, but she sensed it. “It’s just basically being kind to yourself.”
“I guess that’s kind of the idea.”
There was a long silence before she spoke again.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.”
“That’s cause I ain’t been around here before.” He kicked feebly at the gravel by his feet. “I just got out.” He fell silent cutting dead the budding conversation. The sound of blackbirds cawing in the dead trees laid upon them for a long time.
They sat, sipping their tall cans and taking turns glancing up at the sky, then the ground, and then any place but the other’s face. The darkening sky lit with a crack of lightning, and a low rumble tore across heaven back to them.
“C’mon, boy. My house is right there.” The old woman pointed across the street. “I know you ain’t got no place to go. And if they did give you a spot to go to, they ain’t gonna like no liquor on your breath. You can stay the night with me.” She sensed his hesitation. “Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna try nothing. I’m old — old enough to be your grandma. My days for sexing strange men are behind me.” She laughed a single hardy laugh and quickly stood. He looked up to see her tossing her tall can into the trash. She looked back. “You coming? It’s fixing to rain.” She turned and walked toward her house. Quickly, he rose and followed her, finishing the last bit of his tall can and tossing it in the trash.
* * *
“It ain’t much, but I own every bit of it,” she said, waving her hand out into the dark room in a sweeping motion. He waited a minute for his eyes to grade to the darkness before he moved in further. He saw a room that was well lived in, with a faded striped couch on his right, a small kitchen further along back, and a beaten staircase straight ahead of him. “You smoke?” she asked extending a cigarette to him.
“No, no thank you.”
“Fine by me. I hope you don’t mind if an old broad lights up in her own home?” she said with a laugh, throwing the cigarette between her pursed lips and lighting it with a match. She flicked the match out with a snap of her wrist and tossed it in the ashtray. “Ain’t really get much company these days so there’s not a one bit of extra sheets or pillows or the like. You’ll just sleep there.” She pointed at the couch. “And I’ll keep the windows shut. It’s fixing to be a cold one.” She puffed her cigarette for a while then exhaled slowly, bleeding thick white smoke into the room. “You wanna talk?”
“No. I think I’ll just lay on down and get some rest.”
“That sounds mighty fine to me.” She climbed the stairs leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.
* * *
The next morning, she came and sat on the empty couch. The young sun came streaming in through the thin curtains as she lit another cigarette, exhaled, and watched the smoke plumb and dance in the shafts of light.
“He wasn’t much for talking,” she mused to the photo of a young man dressed smartly in a military uniform on the opposite wall. “Had about as much to say as you did, I suppose.” After a long while, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and went to work.
Sam Spring is a 30-year-old nomadic writer working to save up for a van. He dropped out of SMC to start a glassware company and is the lead singer of the band ‘Tennis Club’. His work has appeared in The Wisconsin Review and The Denver Quarterly, among others. You can find him at http://www.samspring.me
Modern Flash Fiction 