Though she had her collar pulled around her face and generic dark glasses over her eyes, glances accumulated as she emptied her cart onto the conveyor belt. Soon a normal would say something.
“Is that Nancine?”
“I think so!”
She pretended not to hear. She had headphones on after all, giant 1980s style cans. How much of her face did she have to cover before she could hide?
Reaching for the divider, she looked up at the tabloids, just to see what they were saying about her today.
“Nancine Snubs Lovers, Buys Cucumbers”
“Is the icon out of touch with salad trends?”
The cashier made no comment as he bagged her produce. He wished her a good weekend in a welcome, impersonal way.
On the news that night, he described the interaction as “forced.” The newscaster pressed him for more details, and he gave them, describing her clothes and her furtive, prey-animal movements.
“Do you think she’s hiding something?”
Nancine took another bite of her cucumber sandwich and changed the channel. Some pundits were debating whether her friends had abandoned her or she had abandoned her friends. Had they simply drifted apart? Somebody must know.
The noise of the debate put her to sleep. Tomorrow she would call someone, she told herself. She didn’t have the energy today, but tomorrow, she would.