Creation.

Christian- The Humble Beginnings

           One, two, three, in. One, two, three, hold. One, two, three, out.

    It was 4:58, and I was praying (to a God that doesn't exist) that no one would come through my lane. If someone pulled up with a cart full now, I'd have to stay until at least 5:03, 5:05 if no one came over to help me with bagging. And if they wanted paper, 5:07 at best. I was cycling through slow breaths when I heard the nightmare fuel that is the sound of squeaky wheels on a heavy cart headed my way. I glanced at the corner of my screen.

4:59. Fuck it, that's close enough.

    I switched my lane light to closed. "Sorry ma'am, Maddie can help you at lane 6." Maddie's lane was already 4 people deep. She handed me a sneer. Not my customers anymore. Not my problem.

    I'm not usually an antsy person, but I had somewhere to be. After her shift at the waterpark, she always walked back to her house, and I always "randomly" stumbled upon her on my way to mine. Her and her chlorine-dried ponytail and athletic long-sleeved shirts. Her and her wrist tattoo and undercut. Her. Juna.

     I had known her in high school the way you know your friend's mom; you see them around sometimes and wish them a happy birthday when you remember, but nothing overly personal. We had the same utopian literature class, and she's been the background of my mind ever since.

    It's going on 2 years, and I still haven't come around to asking her if she wants to sit in a booth and drink overpriced coffee sometime. Kind of pathetic, really. But hey, what can you expect from me. If you knew me, you wouldn't bother reading this. It sounds cliche and repulsive, but I'm entirely unremarkable. 5'7, 150, brown hair and pimply skin. A side character. A filler.

    I clocked out and grabbed my helmet, then lugging my bike out of the storage room and into the world. The wind was strong as a motherfucker, but that wasn't going to stop me. It's been 6 weeks of this now, Monday through Friday, me meeting her, walking to her house completely out of my way, and trying to play it off. Going home, getting high, falling asleep, and doing it again. 

    A couple blocks down and I see her. God. Her. Dyed red hair swishing in the wind, her thin fingered hands brushing it out of her face every 2 seconds. I watched her for a little, focusing. Her hips swing in this perfect model walk, with her chin up and her feet tight roping in those blue sneakers with the ratty laces that I know so well. So beautiful, I just want to know what she's thinking about...

"Christian! Stalker, what are you doing over there?"

Stalker. What a cute pet name.

"What a lovely coincidence running into you. Long time no see."

I biked a few pumps out, standing up of course, and hopped off next to her.

"How was work?"

"No one's life was put in danger, unfortunately. No entertainment for me."

"Unfortunate. I'm so sorry to hear that."

    In this town, nothing happens, and nothing will, and so that is the extent of the fresh drama. We begin the routine. I handed her an earbud, and we listened to her favorite band like we always do, walking side by side (three feet apart) until we reached her modest home on Wilmer Ave. ("Like the famous pig", she points out every time with a grin.) She jogs up to her driveway, gives me a nod, and goes, "Later, stalker." Like it's nothing.

"Later, Juna."

     And each evening Monday through Friday, her front door closes on me, and the emptiness that follows could kill. And trust me.

It will.