First, let me set the scene.
Me: Completely loaded down with a big old geeky laptop backpack and a look of irritation that could not be erased that thing was so freaking convenient and so did not match my boots. Also carrying a silver leather tassle bag, also loaded down with all the
necessities shit I insist stashing in there even though I never, ever pull it out to use, but rather pull out and ask, "Why the hell is this in here?" and then promptly put it right back in the purse. Also toting a cute little empire trench coat to fuel my hot-cold-blazing hot-fuhhhreezing tendencies, especially when sitting in the window seat or directly under the fan (Hello! Air con in a retailer in February in Chicago? Who are you, you satanic hot drink pushers?). Teetering through the 'bucks with my maybe-too-full beverage of choice in one hand and everything else in the other hand.
The Grabber: Approaches. Dyed to the end-of-the-color-spectrum black hair, slicked back, surely with pomade he's had in some dented up tin in the medicine cabinet since 1977. Short, stocking, wearing an beige button-down shirt with brown pinstripes and a collar that gives itself away in its pointiness that stretches a little long on the shoulders. Brown polyester pants, snug. Black belt, cinched. Black shoes, shiny. Slung over his shoulder is a faded, rectangular cotton bag produced at some point by airlines, when they were generous and gave out things like pretzels and full cans of Pepsi.
Now, I'll spill the beans.
We meet: Not so much in spirit or even acknowledgment, not even in conversation or in a glance.