Charity

The wheels of the shopping cart freeze up on me and I wonder what I’ve done wrong. I’m nowhere near my car and I have so much stuff. A moment later, a young man comes out of nowhere to my aid, shoves at the cart for a few futile seconds before offering to carry my bags to my car. I decline politely, I can do it myself, it’ll be a hassle but I don’t need some stranger following me to my car.

 As I huff and puff and pant and wheeze my way across the parking lot, I can feel him watching after me, even if he’s not, I can feel it, and I hate that I’ve become this suspicious old woman who can’t take charity from a stranger, that the first thing that crosses my mind is that he’s planning on stealing my car, my purse, maybe even my groceries, instead of just this nice young man brought up by parents considerate enough to teach him kindness and good manners.

I tell my husband about the cart when I get home, and when I start to talk about the young man, he immediately tenses up as though I’m about to tell him something horrible. “It’s not a good idea to talk to strangers,” he says as I finish my story, says it like I’m a small child who doesn’t know how to take care of myself. “You never know what his angle might be. Thank goodness nothing happened.” I nod, as if in agreement, but all I can think is how sad it all is that we’ve both become so suspicious and jaded, how lonely it all is, this new time in our lives.