So I’m standing in front of the Coral Springs Target waiting to run to my truck with a gaggle of other women who are either too scared of the lightening or afraid to get their hair wet. I’m both. Neither frying nor a wet mop would look good on me.

It’s a typical thunderstorm; the water comes down in a near solid sheet making visibility nil. And the lightening is fierce. Over and over again it seems to strike right in front of us in the parking lot, and the accompanying thunder shakes the ground. I can tell it’s right overhead, because the bright, blinding light and harsh crack arrive together.

Every time this sound and fury band strikes up a new chord, all of us waiters jump. Some even take a step back or inhale a bit with surprise. I personally clutch my basket like it’s a lifeline, not cognizant of the fact the damn thing’s metal and I’m standing nearly barefoot in water.

All of us, except one. A woman to my left with dark hair pulled up in a ponytail is either so heavily medicated or so inured to the sound of artillery fire she moves not a muscle. I watch her out of the corner of my eye and she doesn’t jump or gasp. There’s no movement, slight or otherwise, that reveals how she feels or thinks about current events.

Of course my fertile imagination takes flight with all the reasons why ponytail could be so stoic. Deaf. Ex-military. Going through a divorce. Has more than 3 kids.
She’s also the first of us to step off into the rain toward her vehicle. I’m a lackadaisical third, but still soaked through and shivering by the time I’m securely seated in Liz, bags thrown in the passenger seat. It registers that I’ve just chugged through water over my ankles; the lot is under water. I’m so glad I drive a truck.

Stoplights are out and concentration is required while a city cop gestures first one group of us through the intersection and then another. Vaguely aware of ponytail woman lingering on the edges of my conscious, I actually strive not to think of her. This sometimes happens; people get under my skin and I take a bit of them with me. I don’t know her; she doesn’t know me. I need to stop thinking about her and will shortly.

I met a woman in 1996 who haunts me still. We exchanged a very few words that included introductions. But the depth of sorrow in her eyes thoroughly saturated me and it was difficult to complete our brief meeting. Even though the situation didn’t support it, I longed to ask her what had happened to her or even to simply hug her. She would have been surprised, even offended, so I kept still and carried her with me.

That’s weird, right?

But don’t you wonder about people??