The opposite of being inspired, whatever that is, that’s what these headaches make me. And I’m not talking about simple writer’s block here. No, that’s easy; anyone can work through that. I’m talking about life coming to a dead stop. These headaches, when I get them, all I can think about is the pain. I can’t work, can’t write a goddamned word. I can’t even think. I can’t drink coffee, I feel nauseous. All I want to do is lie in a dark room. It’s the opposite of being inspired, whatever that is.
I’m standing in line at the grocery store when the lady behind me asks me if I’m all right. I’m not, of course, but who really is. I glance back at this lady for a second and find someone’s favourite aunt smiling back at me with the type of peaceful closed-mouth smile usually reserved for the deeply religious. I turn up the corners of my mouth into a semblance of a smile and give her a quick nod. I tell her I’m fine.
Unable to figure out why this lady would ask me such a thing, I look to my groceries for an answer. Waiting in queue on the conveyor belt, there’s Sugar Crisp cereal, boneless skinless chicken thighs, a tube of original flavour Pringles, two Archie comics, a jar of olives, toothpaste, a loaf of wholegrain bread, and tinfoil. Nothing to suggest I might not be okay. I look down the line, and there’s some kind of hold-up two costumers ahead. There’s always some kind of hold-up. This time it’s something about a coupon. It’s expired. Or it’s for another location. The manager is coming to attend, and all of us, we wait.
This lady behind me, she explains that it’s just that something doesn’t seem right. She feels things. She tells me how it’s not even that I have a headache, there’s something else. I look up. There, high up, resting against the corrugated metal ceiling, nestled among the painted steel beams and hanging fluorescent lights, is one of those helium-filled aluminum balloons. It says GET WELL SOON. This lady behind me, I didn’t tell her I have a headache.
It’s just that she gets impressions, she explains, and sometimes but not every time, she feels compelled to say something. This time, there seems to be some insistence, she says. I turn around to look at her, and I have trouble making eye contact. She’s got greying black hair curled sometime in the last few days and now hanging a little flat. Her blouse, a silvery thing, was given to her as a birthday gift from her tween granddaughter. She wears practical shoes.
This woman, she leans in a little closer, necessitating a meeting of our eyes. Hers, they’re lively, the fluorescent light dancing across her dark brown irises. She asks me, quietly, if I’ve recently had a death in the family. I tell her no. She stands straight and looks me over, at my hat, my scarf, my coat, my pants, my shoes. This lady asks me if I’m wearing anything belonging to a dead person. I shake my head. I tell her no, sorry. The line starts moving, and I turn around to follow my groceries already moving down the conveyor belt.
The manager thanks us for our patience, and I’m now only one customer away from paying, two transactions from freedom. The strange woman behind me, she whispers in my ear, close enough that I can feel her minty breath hot on my cheek. She tells me, “He says he regrets he had to leave so soon, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He was old and it was time.” I don’t turn around. This isn’t the kind of thing I believe in. The cashier, she’s scanning my things, so I know it’s my turn. I pay as quickly as possible and leave the store.
Walking across the parking lot to my car, I pull my coat closed against the cool winter breeze. It’s this winter coat I always wear, the one that doesn’t need replacing because it’s still fine. It’s the plaid one with fur around the collar and cuffs. This winter coat, the one that’ll never go out of fashion because it was never in fashion, it was my grandfather’s favourite hunting coat. He died before I could form any memories of him. Nearly forty years ago. In my car, I swallow two Tylenol and chug half a bottle of water. With the key in the ignition, I stare through the windshield for at least ten minutes before turning it.
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