I'm still in my scrubs, and I'm waiting in line at the On the Run. A quart of Rocky Road is turning one hand numb, and I'm about to drop the five cans of Fancy Feast I'm balancing in the other. Not that I have cats—I just like to sneak food out back every night for the strays. I know I shouldn't. Just like I shouldn't hug poor Mr. Albert when he chants, "Does anyone know where I live? I want to go home." Or dance with Mr. Souza in the hallway in his pajamas. Or give Mrs. Cook a slice of her beloved chocolate cake, even though she'll need extra insulin later.
The guy in line in front of me is digging through his pockets to pay for his Marlboros. He's going through gyrations, dropping change and cigarette butts on the counter. He adds up the nickels and dimes and pennies and then starts gyrating again, not stopping until he pulls his pockets inside out and little pieces of lint and tobacco fly out, but no coins or bills.
He stinks like sweat and booze. The skin of his back shows through holes under the frayed neck of his grey t-shirt. I imagine his hands pulling off that shirt, wearing through and tearing the fabric. I imagine my hands rubbing the tight muscles under that shirt, how good I could make him feel.
The man stumbles toward the counter and the kid behind it starts to freak, backing away and looking around for help. I reach into my purse, step around the man and put thirty bucks and my stuff on the counter. The clerk blinks a few times, then takes the money. The man turns to look at me. The front of his shirt is covered with God knows what. I can barely see his eyes under his bulging forehead, but what I do see makes my knees wobble. He clenches his jaw, then grins like a kid.
He says, "Thank you…"
"Just don't call me ma'am," I say, grinning myself. I pick up my bag. "We all need something."
He takes the pack of Marlboros and holds the door for me. I look around the lot. There's only my car. I ask him if anyone is expecting him. He says, "Ah, that would be no." He taps out a cigarette and offers it to me. I shake my head. He lights it and takes a drag. I open the passenger door and say, "Me neither." We don't talk. He opens the window to blow out the smoke. The cats will have to wait.
I'll hold his t-shirt gently by the sides as I slip it off him.
By the time he wakes up in the morning, that shirt will be mended and washed and dried and perfectly folded next to him. And I'll be holding a plate of Fancy Feast, waiting by the door to let him out.