Elderly

Today is the day she thinks, parking her lilac Cadillac precisely between the yellow parking lines as a burning sensation bubbles quietly within her stomach and climbs up to the back of her mouth. Flipping the rusty mirror down she shakily applies another coat of coral color to her lips before carefully wrapping a damask handkerchief around her snowy white perm. I wonder if he likes women who wear lipstick. Her first boyfriend hated lipstick, and refused to kiss her if she had even a smudge on her lips. He said it tasted odd, but so did he. Smacking her lips she opens the creaky door and  squints at the shower of sunshine that floods her sight. She leaves the dented metal walker in the car and limps her way towards the carts in the front of the grocery store. The inviting double glass doors open to a muggy red carpet and she rolls the wheels of the cart over it slowly, savoring the moment.   This is it, she thinks. This is my debut.

A shelf of magazines is to the right of the doors, and she grunts with disgust as she glances at a few of the cover models. What has happened to all of the class in the world? she thinks to herself peering at the barely nude models and their manufactured faces.  She remembers her own cover shoot: her body disclosed with a strapless satin emerald dress and a soft grey fur covering just a bit of her shoulders. The day it came to the newspaper stands her hands were shaking as she picked up the brand new LIFE issue and flipped through the crisp, sticky pages savoring the intermingling fumes of perfume and unopened paper. “Madame Burne: A New Actress Dazzles American,” it read in scarlet ink across the center of the shiny cover. Her husband had bought every issue in the area, their living room was flooded with her sleek form and Caramel colored face. A dozen people came to a surprise party he had in her honor. Where are those issues now? she wondered, steadily passing the magazines.  

Walking into the produce section, her attention is drawn to a lentil filled barrel with a large green sign hovering above. SALE!!! .99 cents per pound, it reads.She looks around to make sure no one is watching and plunges her entire forearm into the sea of rock hard lentils, flexing her fist as the tiny beads massage the skin that hangs tiredly from her bone. The familiar sound of thunderous claps and the gentle downpour of water surrounds the perimeter that the produce is neatly stacked. She removes her arm slowly which causes an electrifying tingle to scatter up her back and she quickly pushes the cold metal cart towards the leafy greens. A soft rain exits the white nozzle above which are the accentuated vibrant colors and faceted dimension of the vegetables. Slowly she raises her hand and holds it under the mist, watching tiny drops of water form on the ends of her fingertips and plunge into the groove of the lettuce leaf. She remembers the story her third grade teacher, Mr. Herbert, told the class about the fountain of youth and of the mythical spring’s restorative powers. Last night she took a steaming bath and the pain in her joints seemed to melt into the water, and she felt energized. Wiping her hands on her coat she glanced at the mirror which stood behind the vegetables, giving the falsified appearance of infinite space.

“Madame Buren,” She announces to the misty reflection, “you have gotten old, haven’t you?” She was as old as Mr. Herbert. Carefully placing two heads of lettuce in her cart, she follows the open path directly to the meat counter.  

“I’ll be with y’all in jest one minite,” the man behind the counter shouts, flashing an ivory smile in her direction. He wipes his blood encrusted hands against the white apron which accentuate his round torso, and rubs his fingers against his salt and pepper mustache. Walking towards the meat cooler, he disappears for a moment then returns with a chunk of dripping, marbled pink meat. The man grunts as he drops the meat on the silver slicer, and Madame Buren can’t help but examine the tight jeans which hug his rear end so precisely. He is stocky, maybe even a little fat but she liked her men with a little meat on their bones. She watches his hips follow the motion of the rotating slicer, and she moves her own body in the rhythm as though they were dancing. Hearing a snicker behind her, Madame Buren shoots a side glance to catch a young couple staring at her hips and smiling. She feels her face come ablaze with fire as she darts her eyes towards the packaged cheese on a kiosk decorated in Italian decor. You’re a horrible person she thought to herself as she repeatedly swallowed the lump lodged in her throat He is not even dead a year and you are thinking of other men?  He used to insist on going shopping for all the food, and when she would get home from the long days on the set there would be two half-burned candles amidst a sea of fresh cheese, salty meats, and juicy olives. They would dance to melancholy tunes of Frank Sinatra, their bodies tangled within one another as their  young groins teasingly brushed together. Biting her lip she looks back at the meat man who is handing a middle-aged man a thick package of marbled meat wrapped tightly in plastic.

“Thank ya very much Charlie, I hope things get better with the wife,” he bellows, adjusting his crooked hat. I need a man she thinks to herself, as biological yearning replaces her heartbreak, I can’t be alone forever. He wouldn’t want me to be alone forever. She straightens up her spine and authoritatively clears her throat. I am not weak, I was...I mean...I AM an actress, a singer,  and a model...I am...Madame Burn.....

“‘Cuse me ma’am...” The man’s deep voice interrupts her thoughts, “can I help ya with somethin’?”

“Ahh, yes.” She responds quietly, scuttling the metal cart towards the counter. “I would like some meat.”

“Well ya’ll in da right place Ma’am!” He laughs. “Ya looking for roast beef, or maybe some slow roasted tarkey? I also got honey ham, whish is mightily delicious.” She curses at herself. I would like some meat she mocked, of course you would. Its a damn meat counter.

“Oh, honey ham,” Madame Burne says, raising her voice two octaves, “that does sound divine. Could I have a pound?” The man hits his palm against the steel counter and smiles at her.

“A pound of honey ham it is!”

Her eyes follow him closely as he carries the hunk of ham towards the slicer, cradling it like a baby. When the man turned around Madame Burne’s eyes went right to his accentuated rear. This is ridiculous she thinks, unable to break eye contact with the pockets of his jeans. He’s probably happily married with kids. Suddenly, he turned around from slicing and winked at her. Maybe he recognizes me, she happily assumed. He looks about my age. She straightened the scarf that encircled her head and watched him walk towards her with the pile of meat. Placing the ham on the scale he punched some buttons and leaned towards her as though he was sharing a secret.

“Don’t werry hunny,” he whispered, placing a sticky bar-code on the plastic, “I gave you the senior citizen discount. I know my momma wouldn’t be able to live withou’ it!.” Anger and disappointment boiled deep within  her chest.

“Thank you,” she mumbles through gritted teeth. Madame Burne roughly grabs the ham and throws it into her cart.

“Aww. No problem ma’am!” He said, smiling at her with yellow, decaying teeth. “I jest werry about my aelders......” She glares at him, attempting to find some satirical, polite response that would make him regret calling her old. Taking a deep breath in she lifts up her hand and perfectly exposes her middle finger.

“F**k off, love,” she sings, flashing him her pearly white dentures. A wave of laughter follows her as she limps her way up to the cashier.