“Excuse me,” I say.

I’m at the grocery store in the coffee aisle. There’s a man ahead of me. His cart blocks the way. 

He’s wearing a black toque with headphones stuffed in his ears. The white wires curl down and disappear below the collar of his jacket.

His back is to me. 

“Excuse me,” I say again. Louder.

Nothing.

I’m starting to get annoyed. “Excuse me!” 

Whatever he’s listening to is at a deafening volume, or he’s ignoring me.

I’m pissed now. 

Why is this stranger being such an asshole? Who leaves their cart in the middle of the aisle like that?

“Get out of the way!” 

How ignorant do you have to be?

I walk up to the man to get his attention. Only he turns away as I approach, keeping his back to me.

I try to step in front of him. Again he turns away and faces the opposite direction. At this point, I’m standing in front of his cart and he’s standing by mine. 

It’s like he doesn’t want me to see his face. He refuses to acknowledge me.

It’s very strange. And troubling.

“I’m going to move your cart so I can get by, okay?”

I inch my hand over and rest it on the handle. The man doesn’t respond. I twist the nose of the cart out of the aisle and push it next to the shelf.

Now it’s blocking my favourite brand of coffee—exactly what I came down this aisle for. Too late. I won’t risk moving the man’s cart again.

I head back to my own, not taking an eye off him. I take cautious steps, not even blinking. It’s like he’s a wild animal.

But the animal doesn’t attack. He just turns away as I move around him, always keeping his back to me.

My heart’s pounding by the time I reach my cart. I’m clammy and my shirt sticks to my back. I take a steadying breath before pushing forward.

I move slowly at first, then with intent, rushing around the man. I don’t bother to look at him. He doesn’t bother to look at me.

It doesn’t matter. I feel a wave of relief now that he’s behind me. Like I just escaped a close call. As if I’m free with nothing in my way.

I feel a firm grip on my shoulder.

Every muscle in my body tenses. My stomach sinks and my hackles rise. I’m spun around roughly. 

It’s the man. He’s looking me dead in the eye. I stare back at him, shocked by what I see.

His face is my own.

His fear, his anger, and his doubt are my own.

Because he is me—always in my way.