The Witch’s Gift

Caitlyn Prozonic

This story won Honorable Mention in the 2018 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Award

I wasn’t a runner, but tonight I was. Anyone can be a runner when someone, or something, is chasing you.

I could barely catch my breath. I bent over, clutching my thighs to my chest as I tried to inhale and exhale, but each breath felt shallower than the last. I knew I had to keep going. But the same words kept running through my head: I didn’t know. How could I have known? How could I have not known?

Peering over my shoulder, I checked to see if anyone was behind me. Was that possible? I’m not a fast runner, so how could she have failed to keep up with me? And why hadn’t she stopped me? After seeing her like that, dressed in her flowing black dress, her hands waving over him as he took his last breath, I knew she could have stopped me. I know she saw me.

Her eyes had locked with mine. Her cold black eyes.

I wasn’t sure anymore where I was running to. Who could I tell what I had seen? Surely she would stop me from spreading the truth. She had that power. And yet she still wasn’t here as I continued huffing and puffing, egging myself to keep running, anywhere, far away from where they were.

She was one of them.

She had magic coursing through her. She had death on her hands. She had blackness, evil in her soul.

I had seen her kill him.

The vision of him gasping for breath as three of them held him down, forced him onto the ground and into the dewy grass, flashed into my mind, a horror movie before my eyes.

It couldn’t be real, I tried to convince myself. She couldn’t do that.

She was my best friend.

My sister.

I lived with her every day, but I had never known who she was. What she was. But that wasn’t true, I realized. I had known. Or at least suspected. Those times I’d covered for her when she went out late at night, when she told me it was just to meet some guy. When her skin got paler, I thought she was just sick, or maybe that I’d never noticed it before. That her black hair was just a phase. And those black “contacts” that maybe weren’t contacts after all.

I shivered with fear, or maybe it was the cold night. Either way, I had lived with a clouded fear for years that I couldn’t understand. But maybe I had discovered what that veiled fear was tonight.

Was she always a witch? Or had she chosen a life in the shadows, outside my view and understanding? And, if so, why? Did I not take care of my baby sister well enough?

Maybe I was to blame.

I gulped down air and stretched my legs, keeping my eyes moving around me. She could come after me from any direction. Behind me. The side. Over even from above.

I started running again, my feet pounding against the gravel. Just keep running, I thought. Just keep running.

I thought of the young man’s last gasp of air as it left his lungs. Had it hurt? Did she make it hurt, or did she still have enough decency to give him some sort of comfort as he died?

A silly question, I thought. Of course he suffered. Of course he felt pain. He had screamed, his body wrenching as the last ounces of his life and dignity were ripped from his chest. He screamed, cried in pain and anguish.

Not a drop of blood was shed.

And I did nothing.

Nothing at all.

I just sat there in the bushes and watched, hiding myself from them.

Why didn’t I try to do something?

The pain he felt… I felt my cheek as my lips curled up slightly. Why did a smile creep across my face as I thought about that moment? Why had it happened then during his torture? How demented was I?

Did I enjoy his pain?

No, it must have been a reflex. It couldn’t have been actual satisfaction. No human could possibly feel that way.

The horrible scene flashed before me again, sending me to the ground. But it was different this time. His lips curled as they tortured him. Had he laughed as they killed him?

But there was something about the young man that felt familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about him…

Fear made me tremble, shake until I fell to the ground.

I knew why my sister had decided to join the coven.

She didn’t want the power. She didn’t want to harm innocent people.

She wanted vengeance. For me.

I recognized the man. A fuzzy memory pierced through my thoughts. A young man, that same young man, was someone I had known. And I had known him well. At least, I thought I did.

“You’re starting to remember.” A voice called through the darkness.

I peeled open my eyes and tried to stand. My sister walked toward me in the middle of the street, her black eyes wide and piercing.

“You can read my thoughts?”

“No. I can see it in your eyes. Your fear of me. Of what I’ve done and why I did it. But you must remember. You need to remember who he was and what he did to you.”

I stepped backward, trying to inch away as she came closer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can join me, you know.” she whispered. “Embrace your gift like I have. I would love nothing more than to have you by my side. We can help these poor people.”

“Do you think of yourself as a magical Robin Hood?” I spit. “Robbing the rich of their lives, and giving the poor back theirs?”

She shrugged. “I guess that does make me some sort of a hero.”

“A hero? That just makes you a murderer!”

Her eye twitched. “I’m giving these victims hope again! They can live their lives without fear.

They can rebuild, move on. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you finally be able to move on?”

A man’s face flashed through my mind. A young man, brown hair, tall, a smile that had charm and venom oozing from it. I tried to cover my eyes, but the scene was in my head. But it felt so real, like I could reach out and touch him.

I held my head as if it would burst, shaking my skull to remove the image. The man’s smile stretched unnaturally, like a blackened tear in his mouth stretching across his face.

“I buried him in you, made you forget him and the pain he caused you,” my sister continued. “I helped you hide for a few years, but he found you anyway. I didn’t want you to be there tonight. I knew if you saw him again it would remove my spell and make you remember. I know you can feel that pain. He caused that pain, but he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I don’t understand!” I screamed in panic, shaking uncontrollably.

“He was going to come after you again. He was going to hurt you. You would have been powerless against him. So I had to do it. I love you, Sister, and I know you feel as if you’ve let me down, but you haven’t.”

I shook my head, trying not to believe her, but the vision of the young man appeared in my mind again and again, the venomous smile about to gobble me whole. It felt so real, not just a memory, like I could reach out and touch him, feel his breath on my cheek. I screamed as he came closer.

My sister knelt next to me and stroked my head. “I’m repaying you for all of the care you’ve given me over the years. He can never hurt you again. Never.”

As she touched me, visions of the young man flashed through my mind. Visions I was reliving. Him and me walking along the road, arm in arm, happy together. Lying in bed at night, talking together until the dawn. But then the visions turned dark. He was yelling at me. I had found out his dirty little secret: He was a human killer. As a warlock, he despised the humans and anyone who liked them or got in his way. He would kill them with a flick of his wrist for sport. But I didn’t feel the same. I tried to stop him, vision after vision, but he only got more violent. Yelling that I could never stop him, that he would punish me for my insolence. Threatening me. Threatening my family. And then one final confrontation, standing in front of me, his hands outreached over me as I lay on the ground, ready to strike me. Ready to kill me. His face, his whole body, became distorted, his venomous smile reaching from ear to ear as he reached for me. I screamed, my whole body screamed, trying to release myself from the threat before me. Before he could strike, I was struck by another spell, but it didn’t hurt. It gave me sweet relief, a numbness that removed the fear.

Forgetfulness.

The vision of the young man went black. He was gone.

I opened my eyes. My sister stood before me, her eyes still wide and black, but the darkness felt comforting.

My whole being felt lighter, as if a weight had been magically removed. I started to faint, but my sister caught me in her arms, holding me and rocking me like a small child.

“He can’t hurt you,” she cooed comfortingly into my ear. “Never again.”

Tears wet my cheeks. They were no longer from pain, but relief.

Her words rang in my ears. “Never again.”

I sat up in her arms. “I want to help others who have been tortured or lost loved ones because of our kind,” I said. “Never again.”

My sister smiled at me, but it didn’t scare me. It was a smile that contained the love of a sister, happy to be reunited with her sibling.

She helped me to my feet. As we stood in the street, I felt power coursing through me, a soft current running through my body. It was familiar and comforting. How had I forgotten?

“My gift,” I said. “I remember now.”

The past felt like a distant memory slowly coming closer, almost within my grasp. I closed my eyes and saw the last hour. Felt the last hour. That was my gift. Reliving memories. But not just my own. With just a touch, I could feel others’ memories.

My sister smiled at me. “This is a new beginning for you, Sister. Tonight, you start a new life. And now you can use your gift without fear. You can live the life you choose.”

“I want to join you,” I said. “I want to help those who have gone through trauma, use my powers to find out who’s hurt them and how we can make amends. I don’t want anyone to feel the pain I’ve felt.”

My sister nodded. “We can make a great team, you and I. Two witches, working to help the common people gain back what was taken from them.”

I nodded and squeezed my sister’s hand, ready for the coming adventures in my life. My new life. I had a chance to start again, without fear, and with my sister, who only moments ago I had feared. But now, I finally felt safe and in control of my own destiny.

My sister squeezed back as we flew into the sky toward the moon, ready for the mission ahead.

Tigers in Tutus

Caitlin Prozonic

This story won Honorable Mention in the 2016 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Award

In India, there live many tigers; majestic cats of sunny orange wrapped in black stripes. Ten such tigers and their kin lived right outside an Indian village, and they were very hungry. Each day, they watched the villagers with hungry, feasting eyes, hoping one day they could have a bite of human. But they did not dare attack the humans, for there were many more humans than tigers, and they would surely drive the tigers from the village if they tried.

One day, some strange human creatures came to the village: ten humans dressed in frilly pink skirts that stuck out stiffly from their waists. They danced for the villagers, spinning and twirling upon their toes. None of the tigers had seen this type of dress or dance before. The ballerinas moved around the village, wildly waving their arms around like a flock of birds and hopping into the air like giant rabbits.

The tigers wondered at this strange sight while the villagers gazed in awe at the performers.

“They look so silly,” one tiger said.

“Are they trying to fly?” asked another. “If so, they are failing miserably. They don’t even have wings!”

“Their skin and feathers are too brightly colored for my taste,” scoffed yet another.

But the chief tiger, Durai, understood the humans—both their language and their hunger for entertainment. He had been in a circus before he had become chief. He had jumped through flaming hoops and pranced about as a human led him with a pole. He had not enjoyed it and much preferred his life as royalty. But the human performers in the village made Durai think of a brilliant plan.

“They may look silly,” Durai said to his subjects, “but these strange humans have given me an idea of how to find some food.” He bared his teeth ravenously as the other tigers listened. “If we steal their bright clothes, we can pretend to be them and fool the villagers.”

“Why would they think we are humans?” one tiger asked. “Even with those outfits we will not look very much like humans. They will notice our bright orange fur and our stripes and know that we are tigers.”

“This is true,” Durai agreed, “but we need not worry. They do not need to think we are human, but if they think of us as dancing cats, they may not fear us, and once they no longer fear us, we can have humans for supper!”

The tigers cheered their leader and his plan, as they were all starving for meat, and human meat was their favorite. That evening, nine of the tigers stole into the village, creeping quietly on their padded paws as they would stalk their prey, and snuck into the huts where the ballet dancers slept soundly. Inside, the pink tutus and pointe shoes were piled into a corner, waiting to be worn again for the next night’s performance. The tigers drooled with hunger as they smelled the humans around them, wanting one or two for a meal, but they dared not defy their leader’s orders, so they tiptoed through the hut and stole the dancers’ costumes. When they arrived back at the tiger camp, the cats tried on the costumes.

“The skin is a little tight,” one of the tigers moaned as he forced himself into the leotard.

“It is meant to be that way,” Durai explained as even he wiggled into one of the costumes, “as dancers must move a great deal, with form and grace. These skins move with them and emphasize their movements.”

All the tigers nodded in understanding, knowing that their chief was very wise and that, of the tigers, only he would know of such things like dancing and costumes. But not one of them could force the tiny, hard shoes onto their big paws. Durai assured them that this would not matter in their plan, and hoped that he was correct.

The ten costumed tigers looked around at each other in their strange new pink skins. Before any of them could say a word about how they all looked, Durai clapped his paws.

“Before we can lure the humans, you must learn some basic dance moves, for our plan cannot work without authenticity. Do as I do.” Durai stood up straight on his hind legs with his giant arms before him in a circle and bent his knees low, and then straightened back up, his arms still in front of his chest. Then all the other tigers copied him, circling their arms and bending their knees.

“Good,” their chief said to them. “Now try this.” Still on his hind legs, Durai leapt before his nine suited subjects, flying across the ground with his arms outstretched. When he had finished, the other nine leapt for their chief, showing him that, though they felt they could never be as talented as he, they could do their best.

Again, Durai praised his loyal subjects with a clap of his paws. “Wonderful! Now let’s try this.”

The ten tigers danced throughout the night, their chief instructing them in graceful moves to perform. The cats’ pink tutus bounced as they learned to spin, jump, and bow. Unused to walking on their hind legs, let alone leaping, the tigers fell many times, but they were eager to learn this dance known as “ballet.” Was it for the meat, or for the excitement of the dance?

As the sun rose over the Himalayas and pink and orange swirled throughout the blue India sky, the cats all looked to their chief for further instruction. Tired as they were, they were ready to learn more and awaited Durai’s instructions eagerly.

“My faithful tigers,” the chief addressed his dancing subjects, “you have done very well, and I am proud of all you have learned. Sleep now and sleep well, for this evening we shall go into the village and show the villagers our new talent. You are ready.”

The ten tigers, including the chief himself, roared and cheered for one another with pride. Then, tired but excited for the night ahead, each tiger wiggled out of his or her costume. Exhausted, they each fell asleep as soon as they lay down.

As evening approached, the tigers became nervous as they once again put on their costumes and danced around, spinning and leaping and bowing their knees and twirling across the floor, practicing all they had learned from the night before. At last, Durai clapped his paws. All of the tigers stopped and listened attentively to their chief.

“My beautiful tigers, tonight is the night! We shall show the villagers that we are more than just majestic creatures, but that we can move as gracefully as any human. Tonight, we will dance into their hearts and show them that we are not just wild beasts of prey. We are artists.”

The tigers roared in applause for their chief’s inspirational speech, and Durai bowed and blushed in appreciation. When the roaring had finished, Durai said, “Now, let us dance!”

The ten dancing tigers made their way through the other tigers of their tribe, who cheered them for their beauty and bravery, for they believed that the costumed cats would soon bring home food for all.

As they made their way through the dark village, they ran into no one. It was quiet and empty, save for one large hut in the middle of the village that was lit with fire light and bursting with excited chatter. The tigers hid outside and listened as a distressed director spoke.

“The ballerinas have left! They thought they found tiger prints in their hut, and their costumes were gone when they woke up this morning. They have been scared away! We promised the villagers another ballet, but there are no dancers for them to watch. What will we do? Everyone in the village is here and waiting, and they will be so disappointed.”

Hearing these words, the tiger chief nodded to his costumed subjects and led them inside the hut, past the worried director, whose mouth dropped open in surprise and fear. Durai led the tigers right onto the stage. One hundred pairs of human eyes stared at them, motionless and silent. Whether out of amazement or fear, it is difficult to say.

Durai looked at his nine subjects, costumed in pink leotards and tutus and shaking with nervousness. For a long moment, none of the tigers moved. At last, Durai stood on his hind legs and clapped his paws. All of the tigers on stage turned their heads toward their chief.

“This is it, my talented tigers. Let’s dance as we rehearsed!” But, of course, since he spoke Tiger and not Human, these words came out as a roar. All of the humans in the hut jumped, but still no one ran away, captivated by the beautiful, strange sight of the costumed animals on the stage.

The piano player sat by the stage, shaking in fear and waiting for his cue to begin playing for the dance. Durai said to him, “Excuse me, sir, could you please play Swan Lake for us? Thank you.” But, again, since he spoke Tiger, his request was a roar. The piano player jumped on his bench and immediately started playing ballet music, though it was not Swan Lake as Durai had requested.

As the sweet music began, the tigers no longer shook with stage fright but moved along with the music. They bowed their knees in plie. They spun in circles around the stage and leapt to the music. They even joined paws and danced with one another, twirling their tutus as they turned. They were graceful cats, pouncing not in the name of food, but in the name of art and beauty. The dancers focused so much on the music and the dance itself that they did not think about the humans before them, as food or audience. Even Durai, who had hated performing in the circus, was caught up in the music and the flowing of the dance he had created.

For two hours, the tigers danced on the stage, gliding across the stage as gracefully as could be. Once the music stopped, and the tigers took their bows for the curtain call, there was silence once again in the hut. Durai held his breath in anticipation, wondering how the crowd would react. Would they be cheered and adored or run out of the village?

Finally, the humans all stood up from their seats and applauded the tigers, yelling their praises. Their clapping mixed with their cheers sounded like one large tiger roar.

The troupe of tigers bowed together again as flowers rained upon the stage at their feet. Smiles grew on the cats’ faces, and even Durai was proud to once again be a performer, as the audience continued to applaud the magnificent ballet performance.

Never once during the performance or the curtain call did it cross any of the tigers’ minds that they wanted human for dinner. For how they could they eat their audience, who loved them so dearly? What mattered was the dance, moving to the rhythm and flow of the music playing, the art and beauty of the dance, and the audience that sat before them, who appreciated and loved the art that they created together.

So it came to pass that the tigers became the official dancers of the village, performing their tiger ballet each night for the villagers. In return for the beautiful dancing, the villagers would give the tigers wild animals that they had hunted during the day so that the tigers would not starve. The villagers held festivals in honor of the dancing cats, where the humans dressed as tigers and danced about in celebration and honor of their majestic carnivorous neighbors. In that one little corner of the world, harmony grew between man and tiger through the power and beauty of dance and the unifying spirit of art.

Sushi and Turtle Brownies

Caitlin Prozonic

Beep.

Pause.

Beep.

Pause.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“That’ll be $25.85.”

Phil looked down the line of customers at his register. It was going to be a long shift, he could tell. His next customer was a slow-moving 80-something-year-old woman, her cart filled with necessities: lotions, medications, milk, bread, meat, cheese, eggs, and bran cereals of varying types.

“Good morning. How are you today?” Phil felt courtesy was important for any grocery cashier, no matter how he felt that day. Or how long it would take a little old lady to unload all of her purchases.

“I’m just fine, thank you.” Her hand shook as she reached into her cart and pulled out a gallon of milk that she could barely lift.

She gradually placed each item on the conveyor belt as Phil waited as patiently as he could. He was never one to yell at a customer for being too slow, or anyone for anything, for that matter. He had to be patient with Sarah toward the end, so he had grown accustomed to patience more than most people. Politeness to customers was his first priority. His smile never faded. His hand glided over his shiny, balding head. It was the only thing he could do to fill the time as he waited for each item to crawl toward his outstretched hands so it could be scanned.

It was a rather busy Tuesday morning at SuperMart, but Phil didn’t mind much. He focused on the line behind his current customer. The day was crawling along, and it was making his people-watching failings unbearable. Not one of his usual customers had come yet. Phil glanced at the clock at the bottom of his register monitor. The time screamed at him: 11:53 AM. Almost time for the lunch-hour crowd.

SuperMart was quite large with thirty aisles, and it had a diverse selection of products. A customer wants the basic steak, cheese, and milk? No problem. Imported, Mediterranean shrimp? Sure. Picnic table with chairs and an umbrella? Yep. How about a hammer and wrench? Why not. To call it a grocery store was a bit of a stretch. SuperMart’s focus was on quality and quantity foods, but that didn’t stop them from selling more extraneous items. They were competing with Mega Market as much as they could..

The older woman slid her credit card through the magnetic strip, upside down, three times in a row. Phil sighed, not sure if he should tell her or let her figure it out. Luckily, on the fifth try, she flipped the card over, and the credit card reader finally accepted her transaction. After placing her bags into her cart, he watched as she teetered off to the exit and out the door.

Phil tugged at the “Hello, I’m PHIL” name tag on his faded red apron and looked out beyond the registers. To break the monotony of continuous scanning and money accepting, he often observed the customers shopping through the aisles: The young mother with her two bratty children, who bug her for attention and candy; the man who is alone and was sent on a mission by his wife to look for items on a list that she wrote, who nervously stares down at the list in one hand while the other hand holds five other goods; and, of course, the older woman and her elder husband who buy everything imaginable either because they are having a huge family gathering or, more likely, they want to stock up on grocery items so they never have to shop again. The generic customers.

But no one mattered as much as one customer. She was far from typical, except that she came to the store every Tuesday at 12:01 PM sharp. She was always on time. Phil checked the clock once more: 11:59. A few minutes too early.

Phil had all but fallen in love with this woman. She was an unapproachable enigma, and that was part of the thrill. He guessed that she was about 35 and unmarried, since she never wore a wedding ring and always came alone. Her body resembled a celery stalk, skinny with a full head of brown hair. She wore a scent of strawberries and a pinstripe business suit with black heels that made a click-click-click sound as she walked through the linoleum-floored aisles. Her cherry tomato lips beckoned for a sweet kiss. But what was strangest of all was her typical Tuesday purchase: sushi, a turtle brownie, and a bottle of 2% milk. This is what truly intrigued Phil. Who could seriously stomach that food as a weekly meal? Apparently this woman could, or at least that was what he figured. Who knew if she actually ate that food, at least in one sitting? Who would?

His eyes wandered around the store as he mindlessly scanned products for customer after customer. Then he heard heels clicking.

She strolled through the automatic doors.

Phil anxiously rubbed the sweat off the back of his head and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth while checking out yet another customer in line.

“Excuse me, mister, can I have my gum?”

Phil looked down past his counter at the tiny female voice that addressed him, and then stared at the pack of Juicy Fruit he was grasping.

“Oh, sorry.” He tried to smile and quickly handed the gum pack to the little girl. “Here you go. Have a nice day.”

He turned from the girl to look for the mysterious woman, but she had vanished into the aisles.

Phil wondered where she had gone first: Dairy? Bakery? Sushi? He let his mind wander as he reached for more items to scan. Would she come to his register? She usually did. But maybe his line would be too long, and she would be in too much of a hurry to wait to see him. Maybe she hated him and didn’t want to see him. Maybe she usually came to his register because he was the empty cashier when she was in a hurry. Was it his hair, or lack-thereof? Did he smell bad? Did he smile too much or too little? What was he doing wrong? How could she ever like a middle-aged man whose primary income came from a grocery store since he had gotten laid-off from his high-paying engineering job five years ago?

Phil was engrossed in his ponderings and self-deprecation. Work seemed to be the least of his problems. He just wished he was someone different, someone who had a more prestigious life to impress a woman he hardly even knew. Suddenly, Phil, not looking up from his monotonous scanning, took in a deep breath to calm his nerves and noticed a subtle scent of strawberries. His hands held a package of squid-filled sushi.

He looked into her clear blue eyes as she put her meal on the conveyor belt.

“H-h-hi.” Phil stammered nervously as he reached over to scan her purchases.

“Hi.” Her smile invited and comforted him.

“I-I’m good, thanks.” Good, he thought, answer a question she didn’t even ask, Stupid.

She giggled, placing her delicate white hand in front of her mouth to cover her laughter. Her dimples were deep in her cheeks, her smile wide, as she bit her lip. She looked away from him and blushed, just like Sarah used to. She always made him think of Sarah.

He picked up the items and scanned them: a pack of sushi rolls, a bakery-made turtle brownie, and a serving of milk.

Phil’s stomach turned. She must have a strong stomach. Or maybe she was pregnant. Sarah had weird cravings when she got pregnant, like mac and cheese mixed with grape jelly.

Phil finished scanning her items and sent them down the conveyor belt. She had all her usual items. It was a typical Tuesday.

He didn’t even look at the total; Phil knew it by heart. “Your total comes to $9.91.”

He knew the drill. She would pull out a ten, and he would get the change ready early.

As she reached into her quilted wallet, Phil saw a picture of a girl. She’s a mother, he thought with a smile.

Am I falling in love with this woman? he wondered. I don’t know her. She would never love me back. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall in love again. Remember what happened to Sarah. I’m just a laid-off engineer who needed some cash, and this is where I ended up.

But there’s something about her.

He packed each item into a plastic bag, fitting them together like a Tetris puzzle, avoiding the woman’s gaze. He was ashamed of his job, of why he never tried to find another. But he was only providing for one now, rather than the two before and the three he had been anticipating.

Sarah’s medical bills had been expensive. Pregnant, scared, and diagnosed with cancer, it was a struggle at first, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. He just had to work overtime at the plant. But then the economy crashed, and the only work he could find was at a local grocery store. By the time Sarah went into labor, her health took a turn for the worse. And so did the baby’s.

And then it was only him.

He never looked for another job. SuperMart was safe. The only stability he had anymore.

It was an unlikely combo, this woman’s meal of sushi and turtle brownies. But it could happen. Like the possibility of them in love. Like Sarah and death in childbirth during an age of modern medicine. Like happiness working in a supermarket. Like a child born who suddenly stops breathing. Like Phil falling in love after Sarah. Anything was possible.

The woman smiled at Phil as they exchanged money. “Thanks,” she said. She picked up the plastic bag filled with her items and turned to walk away, but paused.

“Same time next Tuesday?” she said sweetly to Phil, raising an eyebrow.

Phil gulped and nodded. “Yes, same time, same place.”

The woman shook her head in reply and smiled. “Good.” She paused, biting her lip a little. “I’m Audrey, by the way.”

The man behind Audrey in line began to tap his foot with impatience, but Phil ignored him.

“I’m Phil,” Phil replied, pointing to his name tag.

“It’s nice to meet you, Phil,” Audrey said. She swished her plastic bag and turned once again to leave the store.

Phil turned back to his next customer. “I knew I should have gone to Mega Market,” the customer sighed.

Phil heard one click of Audrey’s heel.

I might never have the courage to do this ever again, he thought. Maybe this is my one and only chance.

A second click of her heel.

But she might say no, and, anyway, I still miss Sarah.

A third click.

But I will always love Sarah. I told her that a million times before she died, and I tell her every day since. This woman could never replace her, and Sarah made me promise to be happy when she was gone.

A fourth.

“Audrey!” Phil shouted, dropping a packaged chicken back onto the conveyor belt.

The automatic doors opened in front of Audrey, but she stopped. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her lips turned up in a smile. “Yes, Phil?”

“Would you like to have dinner sometime? With me,”

Her lips opened in surprise. She didn’t say anything for a moment. After a grueling moment of silence, she replied:

“I’d love to.”

Phil breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Great.”

Audrey hesitated. “Is it okay if I bring my daughter? I don’t think I’ll be able to get a sitter in time.”

“Of course. I’m sure she’s a beautiful girl. What’s her name?”

She smiled. “Sarah.”