Hominy
By William Vandegrift
Excuse me, you said. I think I know you.
We were in the produce aisle, and I was holding a head of cabbage. Was it cabbage I wanted or was it cauliflower that I was looking for, to make soup? I always mixed up these two.
Before I could decide, I was caught off guard by your startling blue eyes. I feigned confusion. I lied and said no, but I did remember you from that party we were at a last winter. You flirted incessantly with my husband, and he could not keep his eyes off you. You touched his arm, and your eyes went aflutter whenever he whispered something funny into your ear. I thought you were an absolute bitch.
I placed the cabbage in my cart. You laughed and told me about when we met at the buffet and introduced our husbands. I nodded politely. I remember. Oh, yes, do I remember. You clutched my arm while we strolled down the aisles of the supermarket. I shrugged you off and told you I was looking for hominy.
Oh, that’s in the international aisle, you said, and I hoped you wouldn’t follow me, but you did. You were quite the chatterbox. You told me about your trip to San Francisco and that you were still wondering why the Golden Gate Bridge is called that when it is not golden. You told me Alcatraz is no longer a prison. You ate a lot of seafood. You told me about the Dungeness crabs, the crusty sourdough French bread, and the rickety cable cars. And the hills, Oh the hills!
In the middle of the store, we paused mid-aisle, and you handed me hominy.
It’s in a can? I said. I thought it would come in a bag like dried beans.
You laughed. Nothing these days is what you think it is. Or what it should be.
You talked about the president and chided me when it became clear we are not politically aligned. Don’t believe what you hear, you said to me. You’ll be surprised. And you proved yourself right when I found myself surprised to be agreeing to lunch plans. I took my datebook out of my purse, and I wrote our lunch date and time inside it. (You are only available Mondays after one. Therapy at noon, you whispered.) We decided to meet at Marco’s for their famous pan pizza at one-thirty on Monday.
We pecked each other on the cheeks. You laughed as you began to walk away. Pausing and over your shoulder, you told me that you had a great recipe that uses hominy. Chicken tortilla soup. You promised to bring the recipe when we meet for lunch. When you headed for the meat department, I returned the hominy to the shelf. My appetite vanished just as quickly as you disappeared beyond the bottles of soda pop. I stared at the contents of my cart. I felt sick. Not by the food, but I was sick of you.
I wheeled my cart to the produce aisle to return the head of cabbage. Shock stung my face and tears streamed down my cheeks. Yes, I do remember you. You don’t know that I know my husband has come to know you very well. He cruelly told me once, drunk, that you like Rosé and he told me you always order the salmon off a menu. And that you ask for extra anchovies if a Caesar salad is included with your meal. He knows you don’t like flowers from the convenience store and that your favorite flowers are lilacs and peonies. And ranunculus too, but he said those are hard to find. He told me you can use your tongue with the expertise of an Olympian gymnast as she spins on the bars. I step outside the supermarket, and, in the parking lot, I tilt my head to allow the sun to dry my tears. Yes, my husband knows you very well. I lift my shoulders and straighten my back, feeling emboldened with confidence that I know you better than you ever will know yourself.
THE END
Author Bio: William T. Vandegrift, Jr. is a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars. He has published numerous author interviews, short stories, and essays in various journals. He lives in New Jersey with his husband, two dogs, and two cats. He is at work on a memoir about being deaf, loss, and grief.