Waving Not Drowning

Stacey isn't sure if she actually knows the woman. I mean, she thinks she does; the way the woman smiles at her and nods, like they are old forgotten friends who once shared intimate tales of lives lost and dreams forgotten. A melancholy, forgiving knowing. It is that specific. A radiating beam of I See You streaming full blast in Stacey's direction. Of course, Stacey's default is a reflexive mile-wide smile. Full body warmth emanates from her every iota. She has to stop herself from running in for a bear hug as she suddenly realizes they may have never met. In fact, this middle aged black gypsy woman with her headscarf tied in an elaborate fashion singing scat versions of christmas carols perched in a director's chair at the bottom of the subway stairs could be a complete stranger. These moments are the hardest for Stacey to comprehend. Her body vibrates, her intuition takes over her intellectual reasoning and she acts impulsively. Stop. Breathe. Step ba...

Peter stood at the checkout stumbling, frantically searching his pockets, patting his hands rhythmically up, down, and across his chest, then over his bum, flapping the inside of his jacket like a coach on first signaling the batter. Reluctantly he stepped aside so the very old, very stooped Italian woman clad head to toe in black could go ahead. She had a cart full of rapini, 8 potatoes, 5 cans of Italian crushed tomatoes, packages of imported pasta and 3 lemons. Peter wondered if she was eating alone. He was trying not to panic. Not only was his billfold gone but his keys were, too. Think, Peter, think. The cashier, a quiet, comely Irish redhead who married into the Italian grocery family tosses him  a sideways glance, curious irritation in her brow. He's done this before. Last week he left the keys in the car, running, parked on the street during rush hour in a tow away zone with his laptop open on the passenger seat. By the grace of who knows what Peter returned fifteen minutes...