I Didn't Turn Around

I saw him in the checkout line at Whole Foods.

Three aisles away, which should have been enough distance,

but I knew it was him before I saw his face—

the gray hoodie, the haircut, the particular way

his shoulders held the weight of standing still.

The nape of his neck where the collar met his skin.

I used to know that without looking.

I used to be able to find him in a crowd

just by the shape of that small, exposed piece of him.

I turned around and left.

I didn't wait to see if he'd turn,

if he'd recognize me from the back,

if he'd know that I was there and leaving.

I left my cart in the middle of the aisle.

I left my phone on the conveyor belt.

I just walked out like the building was on fire

and nobody had told me yet.

He probably never even knew I was there.

He probably finished shopping,

paid for his things,

drove home to someone else.

But I knew I was there.

I knew I saw him.

And I chose not to be seen.

That's the thing about knowing someone's body—

you can run from it

and it still knows how to follow you.