The Man in the Car
There was a man in the passenger seat of the minivan, parked in the busy lot. A younger woman drove him, perhaps a family member. His cheeks were drawn, his skin paper thin, his eyes dark and serious. My pace was quick as I loaded my trunk, returned the shopping cart, and got behind my steering wheel. Rushing from one place to the next like my own personal assistant, I race the clock. Always. I trick myself into thinking my family benefits from my efforts; in reality the minutes hold too many useless, empty boxes that must be checked. Or else. I felt someone watching, glanced up and caught his searching eyes. His sad eyes held mine, almost desperate, asking questions I didn't understand. I didn't recognize him. I gave a polite half-smile. In awkward movements I broke the trance and fumbled with keys to start my car. Empty casserole dishes waited impatiently for my green enchiladas. In the breath's moment between reverse and rolling forward, I glanced up again to see h...