Arterial Affection

He wasn't clutching anything out of the ordinary. A bag of groceries sits in his lap, celery stalks and potato chips pop out of the top of the brown bag. Firmly gripped in his right hand was a cell phone, the glow bounced off the empty black canvas the night painted against the window behind him on the empty bus

.

He walks out of his apartment. Locking the door behind him, he slinks down a hallway. Voices behind doors blare over his shoulders as he tucks his chin into his chest, blanketed by a large coat. He stares at the torn up carpet with color resembling the putrid pile of decaying and crumbling flesh and intestines from an unlucky creature crossing the freeway. He's reminded of an ex.

He retrieves his cell phone from his jacket pocket. She left him four new messages in the past two days. Claims of being missed, loved, and wanted, rip holes in his lungs. The punctures make it harder to breathe, but he manages to find solace.

He reaches the front of the store. From the reflection of the store's front window, he catches his stare and his mouth slightly agape. She sits in the small cafe to the left of the equally malnourished grocery section. The reflection smiles, he opens the door.

The stool she sits on pivots, and beneath locks of curled brunette perfection shone the largest smile she had ever given. He greets her, a small peck on the cheek as he bends over, finally taking a seat next to her. His pocket rings, and he ignores it once more.

The bus is late, he checks the clock on his phone regularly. Holding a bag of groceries, he dances impatiently, fully aware the only thing awaiting him was a cold and lonely apartment. A woman walks up and stops abruptly, the sound of her heels scraping the pavement dig in his ears. He turns around in time to see her face contort and flood with tears. She runs away, the clicking of her heels stifling her cries. His phone stops ringing.

He stood there with his groceries. He wasn't clutching anything out of the ordinary.