Hunger Pangs

Part 2

Piling my groceries onto the sticky black conveyor belt, I blearily watch them travel to the overly cheerful cashier. Her name tag says Betty. Betty always has to comment on my food because I never tell her not to. I still haven't told her that she needs to have that growth on her neck looked at.

"Doing the Atkin's diet still?"

She bags my pork chops, beef marrow bones, protein powder and soluble fiber laxative. You don't want to know how backed up you can get on a pure protein diet.

Nodding, I fish my wallet out of my overstuffed bag crammed with receipts and expired coupons.

"Honey, you don't need to lose any weight! You're positively skeletal these days. You need more fat on your bones." She clucks her tongue and shakes her head at me.

"Did I tell you that I have this nephew? He's just gotten out of a relationship with his baby-momma and he's got a job at the shipping container plant, works odd hours just like you and I was thinking that you'd really hit it off--", her voice grates in my ears and her jowls shake while she prattles.

Shut up, just shut up!

I swipe my card so hard in the machine that I accidentally drop my purse on the floor. It explodes on the dirty beige supermarket linoleum.

"Crap!" Stooping down to pick up my scattered purse droppings, I knock heads with the man behind me in line. We connect hard enough to make me fall on my ass.

"Mother love a freaking goat! Oh sweet God that hurts! I'm so sorry!" I'm apologizing, inhaling hissing breaths through my teeth, and my eyes are watering from the pain. I gather up as much of my stuff as I can. Before he can speak, I snatch my bagged groceries and bolt out of the store to my car.

In the vanity mirror I see that I have an egg-sized bruise on my forehead. The angry red spot is already starting to turn purple and green at the edges. My injury should be healed by morning. It seems like accelerated healing is the only benefit of my dietary quirkiness.

Leaning the car seat way back, I grab the plastic-sealed styrofoam flat of pork chops and put it on my forehead. Didn't even talk to that guy I head-butted; I guess he was kinda cute.

I bet Betty doesn't want to set me up with her nephew now. Ha! Looking on the bright side for once, are we Mirri? I've decided that I want a full refund on today. Make that this entire week.

Someone raps their knuckles on my window, startling me. My pork chops land on my lap. It's Mister Headbutt. He's smiling at me with big white teeth and the beginning of a nasty black eye. He's dangling my phone in one hand and my pepper-spray in the other. I roll down the window halfway.

"You dropped these."

He's older than I thought, lightly tanned with black hair that looked like he cut it by himself without a mirror. The whites of his brown eyes are yellower than his teeth. Probably some kind of hepatitis, I think absently. I'm always noticing these small physical signs of health and illness in other people. It's like I can tell if they'd be tasty or not.

I hold out my hand for my stuff and he shakes his head, "Nope! You owe me a cup of coffee for this shiner. How about over there," he gestures at the greasy spoon truck stop across the parking lot. "You've always wanted to hang out with truckers. You know you have."

He grins winsomely and I think, why not? What could it hurt? It's not like I'm looking for a relationship. Who'd want to date me? I'd probably wake up in the middle of the night literally nibbling on their ear.

Taking a chance, I nod okay and he hands me my phone and pepper spray.

"That pepper stuff doesn't really work very well by the way," he casually mentions.