39. "Soup for One." A very short story.

I find myself at the supermarket. I remember why I’m there. To buy a Herald. And to be among people. People going about their daily business as if nothing has happened. Strangers. Bit players in my silent movie. I watch them glide by. Emerge from the bakery. Disappear into the mists of the bottle store. Hover over cuts of raw meat and trays of gutted fish. A grey-haired woman, list in hand, is poised motionless before a rack of spices. Another reads labels on chutney jars. How I hate grey-haired women. What right have they to grow old?

A disgruntled child riding on top of a shopping trolley tries to grab packets of chocolate biscuits from the retreating shelves. I hear, as if in an echo chamber, the pregnant mother scolding; the cheerless drone of muzak; pimpled youths pitching the day’s specials. I’m aware of everything. I’m aware of nothing. I look intensely, curiously at the anonymous faces flitting by. Their indifference to my pain is obscene. And comforting.

I go to an express lane, Cash and Eftpos Only. The check-out child stops inspecting her finger nails. Greets me with the corporate smile and script.

“Hello. How’s your day been so far?” she says.

“Good… So far, good,” I reply wearily.

Yes. Good. I’ll get through it; that’s good. I can put on a mask in public; that’s good. I can manage the basics of life; that’s good. Take comfort from daily rituals; that’s good. Learn to shop by myself again; that’s good. I’ll survive. I suppose that’s good too. Hanging in, one day at a time.

I pay for my paper. Set out for the food court. Perhaps I’ll manage something to eat. That would be particularly good.

Heading towards me through a haze of muted clatter is a nameless someone I think I know.

The nameless someone smiles earnestly. Proffers a hand. Shuffles from foot to foot.

“James. Good to see you out and about. I’ve just heard. I’m so sorry, I really am,” the nameless someone says.

I mumble a reply. My voice sounds far away.

“Thanks… was only a matter of time, I guess… I’m glad it’s over… sort of…”

“And what stage of the grieving process are you at?” the nameless someone enquires.

I see his raised eyebrows, his mouth in motion. Hear the words, understand the question. I want to hit the nameless someone. Scream at him. Ram his facile pop psychology down his gullet. The emotional rubbernecking bastard.

I look the nameless someone in the eyes.

“The stage where I can go to the supermarket to buy a paper,” I say quietly and turn for home.

I take a tin of soup from the kitchen cupboard. Soup for One. Whose depressing marketing idea was that I wonder? I vow never to buy it again.