The Aisle

You turned when you saw me and I saw it happen—

the moment your body recognized mine,

the tightening across your shoulders like you were

bracing for impact. Your jaw worked something through,

some small debate, and then you looked away

and angled yourself into the next aisle

with the kind of purpose that means

you're not actually looking for anything,

you're just removing yourself from my field.

I stood there with my basket and watched the back of your head

disappear between the shelves. The pasta section,

I think. Or the cereal. The architecture of grocery stores

means there are always aisles you can slip into

when someone you don't want to see appears

at the edge of your vision. You used it well.

What I learned is that you were angrier than I thought.

More done. The way your shoulders hunched suggested

you've been rehearsing this exact scene,

this exact pivot, and I walked into the middle of your

perfect practice. What I learned is that I don't get

to decide when we're finished. What I learned is that

you already decided, and you decided alone,

and I was just standing in the cereal aisle

holding my basket like it mattered,

like I was shopping for anything other than proof

that I still existed in a space where you also existed,

even if you wouldn't look.