The usual parking lot was full one morning this past winter. I head over to the alternative lot. I’m in no hurry, I have plenty of time. At the crosswalk a gentleman motions me across. I'm halfway across the street, and the next thing I know, I'm looking up at blue clear sky. I try to get up but my body wasn't feeling it. I laid my head back down on the pavement. Holy Tweety Bird.
The kind man who let me cross was getting out of his truck. Traffic in the opposite direction was stopped, too. Move along people, there's nothing to see. Sweet gentleman picks up my shades, all the goodies from my bag of tricks, lip gloss, and helps me to my feet.
Never have I not bounced back when I fall skiing, ice, whatever, I tell him. He lets me know he heard my head hit the pavement from inside his truck. His words almost make me nauseous. Another gentleman tells me to see a doctor if I get dizzy and so forth. Can I drive you to work, someone asks. Nope. Let’s pretend this never happened.
I’m loopy for the rest of the morning. Other than that, no nausea, no headache, no dizziness. Just fine and dandy. I do have a goose egg. Better out than in though, right?
Our day was steady, clients preparing for Christmas. At one point a colleague tells me a gentleman came in asking if I was the person who fell this morning, hit my head. Yes, that’s her. She tells me he waited. And waited. I was helping a guest choose a few special gifts for his wife. I didn’t know anyone was waiting on me. Or around me. He left the store. I thought it kind of him to check on me.
I tease my colleagues. Dang, I fall in the middle of the road and neither man asks for my phone number, for a date, no one told me I was beautiful.
When I go upstairs and tell the story, another colleague calls me over...I want credit for this, she tells me. What, I ask. When the gentleman came in, he asked if the lady who fell this morning worked here. Yes, she does. Is she okay? Yes she is. Is she married? GET OUT. He didn’t. I swear he did. He did not. I just swore missy, he did. He works at x, she tells me.
Lunch time.
I walk to x. There he is, kind of a naughty boy look about him: six weeks overdue for a haircut, a beard with a little gray, a flannel shirt and a smile. Well there she is, someone says. (Can I smell your shirt, bury my face in it? Stop acting goofy, woman.) How are you he asks? Fine, I’m fine. One of his colleagues comes out, asks how I’m feeling, seems as if he’s told others about my unfortunate fall. Anyway, we talk, exchange names, I leave.
After work, I’m picking up a few groceries. I hear someone say, “I keep running in to you today.” (He was talking to me, apparently I was still loopy.) Well lo and behold, it’s mystery man. I’m caught off guard a little bit, so I act like me. Twenty questions - are you local, where are you originally from, medical background, what’s in your basket? Are you at least 15 years older than my oldest child? Not the last two, but now I wish I’d looked to see what he was purchasing. You can learn a lot about a person from their grocery cart. I was slow on the uptake. Brown carhart pants, hat with ear flaps (sexy in a really weird way, or maybe I’ve been in the mountains too long). I nearly ran him over, turning the corner on another aisle. I’m a maniac, I tell him. He smiles.
Sheesh.
This is the weird part...Eventually, I do the self-checkout thing, and head to my car. There is someone at the exit of the store, ambiguous, brown pants, pulling a neck warmer up around their mouth, and a colorful knit cap on their head. I really wish I’d paid more attention to shoes and such, jacket. But I didn’t. I’ve never seen anyone do this when exiting the store, even in the Wild West. Was this my new friend or a coinky dink? And why cover everything up, hair and all, unless you’re a weenie southerner, or you’re on a mountain, or you’re hiding something.
Makes for a good story.
My body was sore. I don’t know if it’s from the previous night's workout - DOMS is real - or if there was a booty protest over hitting the pavement first. Good thing it did. Otherwise I might not be telling you this crazy story.
(Just so you know and don’t worry - my neighbors know I don’t have visitors. I told them a long time ago if anyone comes up my stairs, shoot ‘em. If it’s a man, shoot ‘em twice.)
True story.
Write a comment