by Kari Nguyen
On Saturday mornings, by noon, the delivery car comes from Boston and unloads fresh bread and sandwiches, pork ribs and ground pork stuffed inside of breads and buns and banana leaves, bean shakes, and sticky rice desserts. I watch the man come in, unpacking boxes and arranging them on a table near the checkout counter. My husband clutches his basket, studying the delivery, and walks back and forth behind the table, then around to the other side of it, every now and then taking up an item and examining it at eye level. I stand back and watch him. He is lovely, on Saturday mornings, perusing the fare. I note his winter jacket, and remind myself to sew that button back on when I can. It's the third one from the top, popped off two weeks ago.
He moves around the table, slowly filling his basket. Walking up to him, I put a hand on his shoulder and nod my head toward the candy aisle, and I leave him, planting a kiss on his face as I walk by. I don't like to speak English here, though the two girls at the counter use it with customers. They are sisters, and they ring up the purchases, their hands flying over the old registers, entering prices they know by heart. High behind them is a shelf holding Buddha figurines of various sizes and colors, I don't know if they're for sale, and beneath the glass counter there are shelves filled with old, yellowing, dusty boxes of Asian creams and medicines that no one ever buys. I imagine them as magical elixirs, powerful potions, waiting to be discovered, like in a movie, some untold force unleashed upon their purchase and use.
Walking across the front of the store, I turn and head down one of the first aisles, the one with the bright packages of candy and cookies. This side of the store holds on to the overwhelming smell of fish, concentrated and heavy, from the tanks near the back, and I hold my breath. Down at the opposite end, near the tanks, I see an old woman coming around the corner. She is pushing an empty cart, and at first I think she's stumbled, but then I see she is dancing. Dancing! And there's no music, anywhere, but she's shifting her hips, and there goes a twirl, she's spinning, and there's nothing in her cart. I watch as she slowly dances up the aisle, moving towards me, and I wonder if I should avert my eyes, but I don't, I just watch as she twirls again, and now she's close to me and I watch as she comes up, and she's smiling, and I realize I'm not holding my breath anymore. She stops her cart beside me and reaches over, taking my hands in hers, and says something to me, words I can't understand, the meaning of life or what happens after you die, something wise and important. Then she pats my arm, and moves off with her cart, walking now, as if she's spent all of her youth, after all this time.
I hurry off after her, but she's turned the corner, and I don't see her, perhaps a trick of my eye. Instead I see my husband, walking towards me with a plastic bag in hand, and I ask him, trying to remember the words the old woman spoke to me, and he looks confused. I must have said it wrong. I don't find her again that day, but I come back every Saturday, hoping.
18
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Previously published at Like Birds Lit
(May 27, 2010).
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Everything in this piece is touched by magic!
This story was quite close to perfect. Thank you for sharing it.
This is a story that will stay on my thoughts for a while. What a beautiful little snapshot of a couple people and a few shared moments.
Amazing sense of place, here. Dancing!
The image of the old woman, dancing in the aisle. An expression of joy that continues to work its wonder as the narrator returns every weekend. That's certaily something I would return for.
Thank you all so much for reading and leaving behind such wonderful comments. It makes me smile!
Great job bringing this store to life with such excellent details.
Thank you Christian!
What a grand arrival to fictionaut! Beautifully done, redolent with details for all the senses and topping it off with the old woman dancing, talismanic figure, filled with the mystery and only imparting a little of it--leaving the rest to the imagination of the narrator and us.
This is beautifully written Kari, the supermarket - food and life, the old woman - wisdom
her hoping - youth. Great subtlety in those metaphors.
fav
David, Myra, thank you!
I love the ending above all--hoping for the magic, and trusting that it's there. Wonderful piece.
Such a sense of place--and in a short space, too. It was lovely.
Beautiful ending, wonderful details. A pleasure to read.
Nice even tone throughout that displays a great and graceful skill in the sentence construction and the thoughtful even delicate lay-out of the paragraphs.Like watching a beautiful picture come to exquisite life.Nothing false here or working against the story. Delightful.Excellent work.Wow!
Beate, Matt, Jenny, Darryl ā thank you so much for reading!
The store comes alive. A wonderful dance.
Now I'm hungry! I love stores like this, and you've made a marvelous story from this and your observations of the husband. Peace...
Detail rich & none get in the way, all contribute to a rich seamless whole. Great piece, great ending. Fav.
I love the details here, from the first glimpse of the husband to the last glance at the old woman. This story is so beautifully rendered, the intensity of the moment sticks with me. So glad I finally made it here, Kari! *
Jane, Linda, Mark, Michelle ā I appreciate your comments very much. Thanks for taking the time.
Now, this piece is good: beautifully-wrought sentences, wonderful description, and the touch of mystery/magical realism at the end. This is the kind of stuff I wouldn't be at all surprised to find in a published book of short fiction. Favorited.
I agree with all the comments above. Just a lovely, lovely piece.
Thank you George and Cherise. It means much!!
I love this! Such a magical and unexpected moment in an ordinary trip to the store. You evoked the moment so vividly. Beautiful.
Thanks so much for your comments Dallas, I appreciate it!!
So wonderful. I can taste this :)
I know a market just like the one in your story. The raisin bread is fantastic and I'm dying for a piece of it, toasted, right now.
I have to favorite this.
Peace ~ Rene
Rene, thank you!
Love this. I like the narrator's voice and especially her take on the dancing woman. Nicely done, Kari!
I appreciate it Bob. Thanks!
"...words I can't understand, the meaning of life or what happens after you die..."
In a story of evocative but straightforward specifics, this utterance is absolutely winning, charming, inspired. Oh, yes.
wow, this is so beautifully written Kari...somebody else said the word "alive" about this and I agree wholeheartedly...fave
James and Kathy, thank you both for reading! Iām thrilled to have your comments.
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Thanks Mata!
Kari, Thanks so much for sharing this on the Boston Literary Group. What a great piece.
Cheers!
Robert, thanks so much for reading!