As she walked up the long business thoroughfare toward the supermarket, she vowed she wouldn’t do any of those things. She wouldn’t. Damn it, she couldn’t.
His first text arrived as she buttoned into the bright red smocks cashiers wore, so Tamara paused in the break room to read it. “You okay?” it said. Despite all her earlier self-made promises to ignore any communication, Tamara’s fingers flew as she texted back to Wulfric, “Fine.” As she stepped into place behind register number three, her phone tinkled and she peeked at the message––“C U 2nite”––and smiled. Although her first customer slapped a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a package of bologna on the belt, Tamara replied, “Maybe. Work till 10.”
Her mundane day crawled by. Wulfric texted a few more times but the store became busier and Tamara lacked time to check her phone until break. Groceries crossed the belt and her scanner in an endless stream. Tamara accepted cash, counted change, ran credit cards, and took checks. After the first six hours, her feet ached and so did her back. As she smiled, thanked customers, and did her job, her mind returned to Wulfric and what she should do about him.
She took a late supper break around 7p.m., bought two pieces of fried chicken from the deli and checked her phone. Disappointment soured her appetite when she found no new messages from Wulfric. Maybe she wouldn’t have to do anything about their relationship. He probably came to his senses. Tamara sipped a tepid cola and watched the second hand sweep around the face of the big wall clock until her break ended. In three more hours, she’d get off. If Wulfric showed up, they might have a chance. If not, they wouldn’t.
As the evening progressed, fewer people bought full grocery orders. Instead, people dashed in to buy microwave popcorn or a half gallon of ice cream or a package of disposable diapers. Just before ten, the night checkout manager arrived and told Tamara, “Go ahead and close down your register. Count your till, bag it and bring it back to me in the office. Then you can clock out and head home.”
“Sure,” Tamara said with the faux smile she’d perfected over the past few years.
Inside, her heart ached because she’d heard nothing more from Wulfric––not even a single text. Her hands counted up the money in her cash drawer and she filled out the necessary balance sheet. Just as Tamara turned to take the money back to the office, a customer stepped up to the register.
“I’m closed for the night,” she said without bothering to glance up. “ Shari can get you on register one.”
“Give me the money, bitch,” a man growled and Tamara lifted her head. A man with straggly hair pulled back into a ponytail held a pistol less than a foot away. His wild eyes indicated he must be using, and when he spoke again his foul breath had the bitterness of meth. The fingers gripping the pistol – she thought it might be a .45 because her dad owned one – trembled and she hesitated. He might shoot her even if she handed over the cash.
“Don’t play games. Give me the money,” the man repeated. When she cut her eyes over the aisles of the supermarket, they were empty. Shari wasn’t at her register and she didn’t see a single customer. Tamara lifted the bank bag up in slow motion and hoped she wouldn’t spook the robber. He reached out for it but before she put it in his hand, someone else took it.
“Get the hell out of here,” Wulfric said from behind Tamara. He held the bag in his hand and stepped behind the register. As he did, he pushed her behind him and stood, facing the would-be thief alone. “Tamara, get down.”
“Wulfric…” she said. She’d never been so glad to see anyone but now his presence scared her. “I don’t want you hurt.”
As if to mock her, the man with the gun said, “I’m going to blow your fuckin’ head off unless you give me the money now, asshole.”
Wulfric’s powerful hand shoved Tamara to the floor just as the gun fired but she pulled herself to her knees. She saw the orange flash blast from the barrel seconds before her ears rang with the sound of the pistol. Wulfric reached out and struck the man square in the face with one fist. The gunman flew backward against the racks of candy and gum, scattering them in all directions. He collapsed onto the floor. Tamara stood up and faced Wulfric, who offered her a lop-sided, sickly grin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she told him. “You could’ve been hurt. What were you thinking?”
His face, drained of color, went stark white as he said, “I was thinking about you, Tamara.”
He dropped to his knees and she noticed the crimson spot on the right side of his chest, blooming larger like a rose. Tamara touched it and blood smeared over her hand, the flow heavy. “You’re shot,” she said in a voice harsh with fear. “You’re hurt, Wulfric. Oh, God, oh, God.”