Kate's first encounter with Sadie

The man in front of me cut my musings short. His voice was loose and irritating, like a dump truck had deposited down his throat. The screechy little thing attached to him wailed and squirmed from his grip. She dropped the blue bottle of bubbles on the floor and her gingery pigtails flew away from the line, bouncing toward the sliding glass doors. She was a quick one. The bells on her jacket strings were on crack; neurotically jingling with each step she took toward the exit.

“Sadie git back here.” He didn’t unclench his teeth and he didn’t move out of line. From the side he looked like the weathered love child of Harrison Ford and Robert Redford. Good bones. Hard skin.

Sadie kept tinkling toward the door. I watched her go and reminisced about how I used to wear my hair in pigtails when I was that age. Whatever age that was. Kids were all two or ten to me. Ah, wouldn’t it be nice to be young again, to do it all ove--

“Dang it, Sadie. You little ... “ Lovechild was adept at interrupting, but not at controlling his frustration. He glanced back at me and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came. I’d had that kind of affect on a few strangers in my time. Though, normally, I’d be drunk on a dance floor working the hell out of a new bra.

“Save my spot,” he finally said.

What happened to asking nicely?

“Sure, I guess.” After all, he was my type. I’d noticed his ring finger, shiny with gold, when Sadie threw the bubbles.

He chased after the little monster and I felt a cold rivulet of cream oozing down my leg. I slid my hand into my pants to handle the situation without drawing anyone’s notice. Instead of that, I drew everyone’s notice.

The Boone’s came loose and I tried to hoist it back up with my elbow but it kept sneaking down, like the sweat on my forehead. The whole situation was impossible to manage with my arms full, so I deftly remedied that by slipping in the puddle of bubbles the little brat threw on the floor. Oreos and brownie cake went flying into Darth Vader’s basket behind me, and the Miniatures sailed behind him into Gandalf’s beard. Finished with my stunning tribute to Martha Graham, I gathered all my limbs only to have the three-dollar bottle of Boone’s slide down my leg and clunk on the floor. It sat there, peeking out, like an unexploded bomb.

I froze.

Everyone in line stared at me. I bowed my head and squatted to pull the bottle out of my pants leg. Harry Potter snickered. Asshole.

I’d had a plan. It was simple. But apparently, so was I.


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