The peaches perfect globes

The peaches, perfect globes

under the mist, cool to the touch.

And then her mother,

at the other end of the display,

reaching for something green.

Our eyes met. A flicker.

Not quite recognition,

not quite a stranger’s blank stare.

A half-smile, maybe,

from her, or from me.

A small tilt of the head.

No words.

No 'how's she doing?'

No 'haven't seen you in ages.'

Just the soft whir of the refrigerators,

the dull thud of a dropped avocado

from a few aisles over.

The cart between us,

a silent barrier,

full of groceries, full of air.

And then she turned,

her basket heavy with sweet fruit,

and I picked up a bruised pear.

Like it never happened.