there you are!

she was walking back from the co-op. she bought the same things every time, a half loaf of white bread, slices of mature white british cheddar, cookie crisp cereal and a thing of milk. the place intimidated her, because it was so foreign and uncategorizable. it wasnt a 7-11 exactly, it wasnt quite a grocery store, and it certainly wasnt a drug store. no places in england except for the actual pharmacy had any sort of medicine. she always felt like she was being watched by the security guard that paced the isles, or that she was standing too close to some precious thing that would be tragic if stolen. still,though she had been there for months, everytime someone opened their mouths and let their british accents loose she felt stung by it. the way peoples voices are different, but the same within a region, astounded her. how rachel meadows' parents had that thick british accent but rachel, since she was raised in alabama, has no trace of one. how voices, considering how different each one is (like farmyard animal laughter), could be grouped at all. how its unchangable and innate. how its totally changable and based on the simple truth of where you are.

where you are. she remembered that shirt her mom used to wear, the one that said "No matter where you go...there you are!" When she was little, though it made no sense, she thought it was about hide and seek. when she asked her mom, she told her that it was.

she always worried about the bag breaking on the walk home. like if the bag broke then it would be ok to give up. to fall on top of the scattered groceries and just stay there, face down, until someone who knew which notes to play in her to make a song would come along. she walked fast, heel to toe, staring at the bag. what a terrifying release it would be.

she got to the gate and juggled her purse and the bag to get out her card and swipe the magnetic strip. as she was turning to open it she saw two people walking down the sidewalk- one guy in his twenties and one boy, probably about 12. they were laughing and nodding and the boy was sort of skipping he was so into the conversation. but she had no idea what they were saying because it was all in sign language. she stood there, propping the gate open with her free hand and holding her bags in the other one, staring. she could not stop staring. their hands were like those little books that you flip through fast and can see the animated scene. if you look at one of the pages alone it was just a half-drawn cartoon character.

they passed by her, unaware. she hadnt felt so jealous in such a long time. she wished she was those words being formed by fingers, passed between those two people like offerings back and forth.

the buzzer on the gate started to sound. it startled her terribly, partly because she was surprised to hear only silence as the two of them passed. she stepped inside enough to let the gate close but her neck was still straining to see them continue down the sidewalk, turned towards each other, interrupting and getting it.

the thick wrought iron gate whined its way towards her. she peeked out one last time, and as she did, one of the rungs slammed against her browbone. it hurt like nothing she had felt since david mckee knocked the wind out of her with the soccer ball in 9th grade, when they werent speaking and everyone crowded around her to see what dramatic reaction she would feed to them like hungry dogs.

she stood there for a minute without moving. she brought her free hand up to her head and touched it gingerly, like it was someone else's wound. how beautiful and real, she thought. how nice to have something that bruises on the outside.