mortals at sunset

today i went to the health food store and a very old couple pulled up alongside me. the husband looked like one of those dolls you see at crafts fairs, with the faces made out of an old nylon stocking stuffed with cotton balls. the wife's head hung from her shoulders at the angle of the crook on a shepherd's staff; her chin rested in the hollow of her collarbone. i asked if my shopping basket was in the way of her walker, as her husband knocked around in the bins of dried fruit. he said to me, "it keeps you healthy, this stuff." to his wife, he said, "where are the cranberries that you like?" she gestured--a small, impotent gesture, but he caught it and looked down. she smiled at me and said, "no, that's fine." the husband said, "these cranberries? these don't look like the ones at trader joe's." she said, "these cranberries are better. these are the ones i like." he said, as an aside, "she likes these ones." after a second, i said, "then you'd better get those ones for her." he stopped, looked at me out of the corner of his eye, then a smile cracked his heavy, folded-up mouth and, half turning to his wife, he said, "she knows. this one. she knows about being married." i don't know anything about being married, but it's nice to have knowledge attributed from an authority, so i grinned at him and at the wife.

she said to me, "we've been eating this way since 1952." i expressed my surprise, demonstrating my scant knowledge; i said, "it must have been hard to do back then." she said to me, "we were recycling back then, too." i said, "are you from here?"--being southern california. she said, "new york." i said, "oh really? i've just come back from there. where did you live?" i can't remember which county she said...it might have been putnam or rockland...i do remember she said it was near westchester, but none of the names on the regional map ring a bell. she asked where i lived and i told her, brooklyn. she looked up at me, her wall-eyed gaze seemed to snap somewhere deep down; she said, "i grew up in brooklyn, in king's county. we used to ride horses in the park." i said, "they still do that. i lived right next to the park, in crown heights." she said, "we used to ride horses in the park, and we would ride them all the way down ocean avenue." i lived one block off ocean avenue. i said, "really? all the way to the beach?" she smiled brightly and said, "all the way down ocean avenue to the beach." the husband interjected, like a pugilist spoiling for a friendly match, "i'm from brighton!"

i started to say something, i don't remember what. the husband, looking at his wife, suddenly growled at me truculently, "don't ever take the staph medicines." not knowing whence came this charge, i stopped mid-sentence; i watched as his hand reached out and brushed the downy, cobwebby hair from out of his wife's eyes, stroking his fingers tenderly across her haplessly dangling forehead. he growled again, more softly, "the staph medicines did this to her." he turned his back to me, and drew a protective arm around his wife, shepherding her with their shopping cart around the corner. they both looked back at me, as if in afterthought, as i whispered impotently, "it was nice talking with you."