She almost has it, the last one, her fingers closing over the box the same instant another woman's do, and for a moment the two of them just stand there gripping a television neither one truly needs, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, so alive with wanting that I could weep.
Look at them. Look at all of them. The floor is sticky under a thousand shoes, the lights are too bright, a man three aisles over is shouting a price like it's a psalm, and every single body in here is warm. That is what I keep forgetting to stop noticing: they are warm.
They shove past each other and the shoving is warm, shoulder against shoulder, the accidental grab of a stranger's coat sleeve, the whole crush of them steaming under fluorescent light in their pajama pants and puffy jackets. They think they are here for the discount. They have no idea they are here for the heat of each other.
The woman lets go of the box. She lets the other one have it. I want to tell her that was the good part, the part she will not remember, the letting go and the little laugh and the way her breath came fast. She thinks the sale was the thing. The sale was never the thing.
Somewhere a cart wheel squeaks and squeaks and squeaks, and it is the most beautiful complaint I have ever heard, because it means the cart is heavy, and the hands on it are strong enough to push.
Buy something foolish tonight, all of you. Stand in the long slow line. Be bored. Be irritated. Let it take an hour. You have the hour.
Oh, you have the whole warm hour.