STRANGERS

She tries to forget the anxiety of leaving the house,
tries to busy herself with other things, the
water spots on the silverware, the dog whining to be
let out, the weekly grocery list: a quart

of milk, a dozen eggs, new bags for the vacuum cleaner. She tries
to remember what her neighbor told her once:
The years you suffer are the best; the years you’re happy
teach you nothing. What

is she afraid of? The young mother
and her gaggle of boys taking turns
pushing each other in the shopping cart? The man
waiting in line for his cappuccino and
a double-shot half-decaf skinny latté
for his wife? She can feel their eyes

on her already, judging her,
her hair (unstyled), clothes (baggy jeans and
shower sandals left over from college), the way she holds

the muscles of her face while talking to the store clerk,
inquiring about the price
of tomatoes, a can of beans. Her sister

would have her believe it’s a form
of narcissism, this obsession with appearances, her flaws and imperfections.

She knows better: she’s learned to gauge
the cruelty of those eyes like
little hooks catching on the back of her sweatshirt. They
can see what’s underneath (the flimsy

t-shirt soaked with sweat), the contents
of her pockets (a wadded tissue,
a stick of gum). She knows how much they hate her—
loathe her—for being
so bold to take up space in their world.