EXQUISITE PAIN

by Marianne Carlson

Everything I needed to know about her was encapsulated in one glance. Or so I thought.  From her well worn, dirty white Converse high tops, her skinny jeans, low at the hip, her faded gray hoody, she was an interesting combination of class and grunge, an uptown girl who spent time downtown. She didn't wear the hoody,  instead she wore a tweed golf cap with a little visor that partially covered her dark hair and shaded her eyes so you couldn't tell if she was looking back. The effect she had on me was not pleasant. As I watched her, she made me feel as if I was stealing things from her. Little did I know that in the long run, she would be the thief. 

It was the golf cap that gave her class.  She  entered the supermarket, disentangled a shopping cart by ramming it back and forth several times into the long line of carts,  and took off like The Little Engine That Could to the dairy section. The golf cap rose above the rest of the shoppers, she was very tall and she walked with great purpose. I had never seen anyone shop with such determination, without a list.

I was in hot pursuit, an average man, not very tall. One percent milk went into her cart and therefore into mine. Six large eggs in a thick plastic carton (guaranteed to harm the environment) followed the one percent milk. I could tell she was hesitant about buying those eggs, perhaps she was an environmentalist, but if she was, so be it. I could learn to kneel at the alter of Al Gore, although she would be pushing her luck with that. Six large eggs landed in my cart next to the milk.

The market was quite crowded and so well lit that it became difficult for me to follow her. I thought I had succeeded until we waited in the checkout line. The cute young cashier with curly red hair and purple nail polish was in training, (aren't they all?) She didn't know the difference between a cantaloup and a honeydew, the scanner refused to scan, it was an endless wait, but she was rather endearing, like a puppy eager to please.  While waiting, the golf cap spoke.

"You have been following me."

"You noticed?

"Of course I noticed. You're not very subtle." Unfazed, she said nothing more, then looked in my cart, looked in her cart, back in my cart. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, the way a naughty boy feels who has been caught red-handed doing something untoward. Then she laughed.

“How vexing.”

It was silly of me, and childish, but at the very least it opened the door a crack to a conversation.  In retrospect, it was idle chitchat, but it was all I had.

“Vexing? I love that!”

“Love what?”

“That you use the word vex, what a great word. Are you an English major?”

“No, English is my second language.”

“Let me guess! German?”

“Right.”

“I knew it!”

“How did you know? My accent?”

“I knew it before you said a word. I can always pick out a German.  Germans have a look.”

“A look?” 

Yeah, I can’t describe it. But the Converse high tops are a dead giveaway.”

Our novice cashier had managed to bungle her way through three or four people in front of the golf cap. She was next. I had to act fast or all would be lost. Beep, beep, beep went the scanner, the cashier was on a roll, soon the golf cap would be out the door.  Covers from THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER, PEOPLE MAGAZINE, a potpourri of celebrities, faces frozen by too many face lifts, were almost blinding me. I suddenly realized that the golf cap was one of the most authentic females I had ever seen and I would probably never see her again. 

“Aufweidershen,” she said. “Enjoy your quark.” She smiled as she exited through the automatic door.

That smile haunts me, I have searched for it ever since. The French have an expression, “La Douleur Exquise.” It means the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have. That says it all. Ten years have gone by and in those ten years, I married and have two children, a boy, Thomas, and a girl, Bette. The marriage has been on again, off again, it probably wasn’t a good idea. My wife, Candice, is well named because her nickname is Candy and I find the sweetness in her nature to be nauseating at times. Those times are increasing, as is the botox, fillers, manicures and pedicures. I fight her tendency to steer Bette in that direction by buying her books about Pipi Longstocking and young girl detectives, but I don’t hold much influence over her. 

The software company I work for sent me to Berlin to attend a conference on innovative software for the construction industry. One day I had had just about enough of German construction workers and ducked out for a quick lunch. While buying a sausage from a vendor on Alexanderplatz, I saw her. It’s strange, I never knew her name, somehow it added to the allure not to know, but I know it was her. She walked arm in arm with a handsome German, held the hand of a little blue eyed blonde girl, the golf cap sailing above the crowd. Our eyes met briefly. I will never know if there was a slight twinge of recognition on her part.  It doesn’t matter because in that brief moment, she once again gave me what I needed, only this time I did not feel as if I was stealing, I had earned the right to it.

“Ihre Änderung, Herr, Ihre Änderung.” The vendor called me back to reality as he handed me my euros. I momentarily wondered if he was cheating me, but it really didn’t matter.

It's All Temporary