I saw the jacket first

I saw the jacket first.

Thought about going the other way.

Didn't.

They turned. We said hey.

Something about the line, the weather,

something.

And I noticed:

the hands on the cart, open,

just resting there.

They used to grip things.

Table edges. Steering wheels.

The door frame, once,

waiting for a conversation to end.

I watched the hands the whole time we talked.

They laughed at something the cashier said—

easy, actual—and pushed the cart toward the exit.

I don't know when I gave up.

Not when we stopped talking.

Before that.

Some Tuesday, probably.

Standing somewhere, working out

the next thing I could say,

and then just—not.

Their hands on the cart.

Moving away.

Open.