Leaving, a story in progress

The first day of October seems like a good day for a story like “Leaving.” It’s a work in progress. I hope you enjoy it.

Leaving
By Laura McHale Holland

He's handsome enough, a senior citizen like me, shopping for deals on discount day. He holds a yellow-orange apple in his hand. I pick through a bin of pink grapefruit. Yesterday, he was four behind me in line at the post office. A day before that, he pulled up in a Jeep at the Chevron while I pumped gas into my CR-V. He smiled. He doesn't always smile. Last week, when I left the nail salon, he stood across the street, scowling.

I have to know what the deal is. He's been appearing almost daily for two weeks, probably more. I'm not sure because I'm not the most observant person, as my ex-husband would gladly tell anyone if given the chance.

I get up my courage while passing by the mushrooms. The floor is slick, polished, wet. I concentrate to keep my balance as I approach. I'd hate to fall at his feet, maybe break a hip. He's inspecting a display of heirloom tomatoes.

I tap his shoulder. "Those look friendly, don't they?" I cringe. My cheeks go hot. Do I sound like someone who dropped too much acid back in the day? Who besides me thinks tomatoes have feelings?

He pins me with eyes as bright as the sky on a sunny day. He looks wise, like a wizard. He glances at an array of over-ripe bananas, then zeroes in on me again.

"Do I know you?" My palms moisten. "Do you know me?"

He smiles, revealing teeth too white.

"It's like you're everywhere I go these days. Whenever I leave the house, there you are."

His smile widens.

"I'm Bonnie," I say.

"David," he replies. "David Lane."

A memory of a shy, skinny freckled boy surfaces. "Did you grow up in Greendale near Lunar Court?"

He nods. "And you, Bonnie Blake, lived on Grove, one block away. I saw you walking to school all the time. You raced ahead of me."

"I remember you mowing your great big lawn."

"No more. My folks sold the place years ago. Buyers subdivided it."

I give a nervous chuckle, avert my eyes. I never noticed him in school. He seemed dull as a math book, if I'm being honest. And his eyes didn't sparkle. They were flat as faded jeans. Today, they hold a kind of mystery. What changed him?

I feel pulled toward him but break away, catch my breath. "Well, nice to see you again."

"Even now, I couldn't muster the courage, could I?"

"See you around, I guess." I give a quick smile, cut my shopping short and rush to the checkout.

At home, I climb to the attic and find his picture in an old yearbook. David Lane. He was on the debate team, the physics club, French club, and swim team. Who knew he did all that? Impressive. Not like me. I couldn't even make the pom-pom squad. Online, I scroll through my high school alumni news feed. There's a note about him. He died in a boating accident last month.