Monday, 19 November 2001 | Hiding behind a shelf

On my way home from work tonight, I stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a couple things for dinner (now that I pretend to cook). I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible and was pleased with how efficient I'd been, how quickly and with few detours I walked from the front door to the cashier. After eyeing people's baskets to see who had the least items, I stepped into the shortest line and found myself standing directly behind a guy I know from high school but probably haven't seen since then. I'm not sure why, but without thinking, I jumped out of line and hid behind a shelf, making a pitiful attempt at nonchalance while peeking around bags of chips to see if it was really him. (It was.) So I waited there awkwardly, pretending to read labels but really just waiting for him to leave, and finally I grew impatient just started doing more shopping, turning my 3-minute errand into one that lasted fifteen.

The weird thing is that I like that guy, and it probably would've been nice talking to him...I'd recently heard he's living in Raleigh and have wondered if I would run into him somewhere. There's just something so loaded about meeting someone whom you haven't seen in years. You size each other up, you try to sum up your life in two impossible sentences, and you break it off with a false "see you around" that makes both parties uncomfortable. Or, alternatively, you find a spot to hide or pretend not to see, and then, when the opportunity has passed, you wonder why you didn't take it.