The Saturday Morning Constant

I would see her every Saturday. The Phantom of the Supermarket, pushing her shopping cart and shopping. Me, doing the same thing. Buying small potatoes, apples and oranges, bread and butter, pieces of cake, and, well, you get the picture.

We would often meet in the aisles of yoghurts and meat; I’d see her buying shampoo while I was looking for shaving cream. Like some kind of Saturday morning constant, she was always there, every week. Sometimes I bumped into her every five minutes, sometimes there was no sign of her until I caught a glimpse of the black hair and gray-black checkered coat she always wore, across half the big store, for only a second or two.

Without her, shopping for groceries would just not be it anymore. Not because she was physically attractive. She was actually around forty, maybe even forty five, or in other words, almost twice my age. No, it wasn’t any primordial testosterone-driven urge that made me want to see her. It was the feeling I had when I saw her that everything is as it should be. The Sun still shines, the paper gets printed every day, and she shops when I do. A balance, you might say. But that’s not everything. I wanted to see her every week because she was mysterious. Her appearance, her self-conscious moves, it was all something that allowed me to imagine. To dream and to wonder. To ask questions.

Who was she?

Maybe a single mother who goes shopping early in the morning not because the store is still quite empty, but because her daughter is still asleep at the time. Could be the daughter is either sick or still very young, demanding constant care, so her mother can only leave the house when she’s resting. It would also explain why my mystery woman always looked so tired. She had these sacks under her eyes, and wrinkles. All of it unsuccessfully hidden under make-up.

Why was she always dressed so fashionably?

It was either black trousers that emphasized her still very presentable ass, or it was an elegant knee-long black skirt that showed off her thin legs and medium high-heel shoes. Almost always the same black blouse with enough buttons undone to expose a bit more than just her cleavage, if you looked from the right angle. And the coat, either on, or folded in the shopping cart. I always wondered what was up with the cocktail party clothes she used to wear. I like to think she had a busy social life, went to clubs and discos, but no matter how hard I tried not to think of her as a hooker; it inevitably crept into my mind. It made more sense and tied in with the daughter theory better. If she had a sick child, she did not wear those clothes to parties, but to work. And once again, it explained her tired eyes.

How did she get here? (And also, where did she live?)

I had never seen her in the parking lot. Not once. Come to think of it, I only saw her leaving twice, but, of course, by the time I paid and got out, she was gone. This was actually one of the things I liked speculating about the most. When I parked my car and when I was leaving, I always guessed which one was hers. Was it the VW Golf? Or was she rich? Maybe one of the Mercedes A-Classes scattered across the lot, a car ideal for a woman (and mother). Then again, a very realistic possibility was that she lived within walking distance from the supermarket. That was what I found the most romantic (for lack of a better word). The thought that she was always around, and whenever I needed to know everything is as usual, I could just go buy something and imagine she was somewhere near.

Did she recognize me the way I recognized her?

We passed around each other between stacks of milk cartons. We waited in the same line for the butcher. But very seldom did she look at me, and even then I saw no trace of recognition in her face. Really, if I could ask her just one thing, I’d want to know if she remembers me. If I mean to her what she means to me. Do I give her that sense of stability and continuity I get when seeing her? But I can’t ask her anything. Not anymore. Not since I had to start talking about her in the past tense.

It’s still hard for me. Not knowing where she is, what has become of her. One Saturday, she just wasn’t there. I thought, oh well, maybe her alarm clock didn’t work or something. But next week, she wasn’t there, either. And the following week. And then the last Saturday of the month. She was nowhere to be seen. Shopping lost its sense. I no longer felt my day was complete without seeing her. I actually thought about asking around, maybe someone else would recognize the description and at least wonder as I did, if not give an answer. But in the end, I didn’t ask anybody, only myself.

Did her daughter die?

Tragic as it sounds, it’s still no reason why she would stop shopping groceries for so long. I mean, everybody has to eat, even a mourning mother. Unless she left town to live with her own mother, or the mother came to live with her and take care of her. Or there never was any daughter and my elusive Saturday constant just left town. Maybe a vacation. Or she moved because she got a better job.

Or did she die?

Anything can happen to anyone. A car could’ve run over her, or maybe she fell in the bathtub and broke her neck. Or maybe her pimp killed her, or one of her customers. No, for the last time, she was not a hooker.

So really, who was she?

A woman who, like me, lived alone, and, like me, shopped on Saturday mornings. An ordinary person, with a middle-class job, a flat big enough to entertain up to five guests each Friday, maybe her friends, or colleagues, which would explain why she had day-old make up on her face, and her clothes, the same she had on yesterday, worn for the last time before she puts them into the wash machine when she returns home from the supermarket.

No. I’ll tell you who she really was. A perfect stranger, whom I turned into something else, imagined things about her that were not true. She was your ordinary forty-something woman that I automatically assumed was a prostitute just because she wanted to look pretty. From the day I first saw her, I stared at her, “accidentally” bumped into her just to have another look at her. I treated her like an animal in the zoo. I turned her into a phantom, and she probably knew it, felt my eyes on her back, so she found another supermarket. Maybe because she was afraid I’m some sort of stalker, maybe because she though by staring at her, I was mocking her.

I apologize to you, mysterious lady, wherever you are. I meant no harm, and I miss you. You made my day complete. Now, I’m alone in a big store and I feel lost.