4 #2
I dart out hugging the wall, feeling like a neighborhood ninja with no paycheck and no health insurance, reach the building entrance with my hands shaking, get the key in on the first try by some miracle and pure survival instinct, take the stairs two at a time, breathing all wrong, get inside, shut the door and throw every lock—the main lock, the deadbolt, the one down low that always creaks, the bathroom lock just in case, and the imaginary terrace lock because I wish I could shut my brain off with a big red button and that does not exist. I slump against the door and stay there, clutching the knob, every inch a lady mid-scare.
I sleep in jagged scraps and wake up wrecked, head foggy, thoughts crisscrossed, and the blonde taking up half my brain’s hard drive, so I hit the shower—hot water, silence, breathe—and the hysteria dips a notch.
I look in the mirror and assess the scene: dark circles, frizzed-out hair, skin begging for help in six languages.
Come on, Alaska, war protocol: drawer open, slather on moisturizer like it’s a sacrament, eye cream with religious faith, clean jeans, a T-shirt with no visible stains, sneakers without mud, and I finish with two crisis-sized strong coffees.
Before heading out, I peek into Vega’s room just to make sure my twin is still in one piece.
There she is, a human tangle under the covers, messy bun half collapsing and one leg tossed out like a rebel.
I smile. I don’t know if it’s sisterly love or the relief of knowing there’s at least one person as much of a disaster as I am.
Truth is, with her asleep in the house, I feel less exposed to the blonde apocalypse.
I decide to go get groceries, if only as an excuse to get outside and breathe air that isn’t domestic paranoia.
Plus, the fridge is a tragedy: one wrinkled tomato, half a lemon, and a Tupperware I’m scared to open.
So off I go, crossbody bag on, head half in the clouds, half checking that no black car is tailing me down the street.
I have to hoof it across half the neighborhood because it’s Sunday and, of course, the bougie supermarkets are closed.
I end up, like always, at that market that looks run by an insomniac gnome, open even on New Year’s Eve at six in the morning.
You can grab milk, salt, a frog-shaped heating pad, and if you’re not careful, a girlfriend.
The good thing is, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk; the bad thing is I get there and there are already more people awake than should be up at this hour.
I go in and do my ritual: basket instead of a cart, because I know myself. If I take a cart, I get carried away and end up hauling six bags, dragging my soul and cursing in Aramaic the whole way home. So, basket. Self-control. Well, as much as possible.
I stroll the aisles with my mental list of "things that won’t gross me out in the fridge." And, of course, the existential stop in front of plant milks: coconut milk, hazelnut milk, or, screw it, unicorn milk? All because Vega treats drinking cow’s milk like a criminal act.
And bam: I see her. The blonde. In the fucking grocery store, moving through the cookies like it’s nothing. And there I am with my basket and my zombie face, staring at the chick who’s giving me more headaches than Vega did during her extreme-vegan phase.
She’s in black, in a military jacket she probably confiscated from some sexy Eastern Bloc general, and boots that could crush an ego or two.
She’s taller than she looked at the gala and has special-ops boss energy.
And the worst part, I admit it, is she turns me on, but in a bad way.
She’s so attractive she looks rendered in Photoshop, not born of an actual woman.
I clutch my little basket and fake indifference, but the back of my neck is on fire and my armpits are sweating.
And the fucked-up part isn’t just the facial scan—it’s that she’s following me.
I grab a can of fabada I’m not going to eat in a million years, and by the time I blink she’s fussing with the beans just as intensely.
I head to the health-nut section to fondle dubious apples.
And she’s right behind me, analyzing the fruit with DMV-clerk seriousness, all business.
The act is nonexistent. No phone, no pretending to read prices, no pawing through gossip mags. She doesn’t even bother with the movie-psycho tricks. She’s here for one thing: to intimidate me head-on, zero shame.
Meanwhile, me… dude, I don’t even know where I am or if this basket is mine or belongs to some retired guy I scared off with my panic face.
I’ve put in mayo, basmati rice I don’t even like, family-size cans of tuna, and, by some cosmic glitch, dog food.
For dogs. And I don’t have a dog. But in it goes, because when you’re being tailed you panic and turn into a random-ass shopper.
All this while I’m self-soothing with theories: hidden camera, social experiment, a bad joke. Or the blonde’s got insomnia and she’s using me as her black sheep to count herself to sleep.
But nope. I turn the corner and boom: laser stare, sketchy smile, a face that says, "I’m spying on you and not even pretending otherwise."
I’m torn between chucking my groceries at her head to end the melodrama and asking her out for a beer—depends whether I get tired of the fear or the adrenaline first.
But the worst part—this is the universe laughing in my face—is that under those supermarket lights that give even carrots wrinkles, she’s still gorgeous. I can’t deal, honestly.
I get in line to pay. In front of me is the classic lady whose face looks equally ready to solve calculus or summon demons: definitely a math teacher, the kind that gives you nightmares about square roots.
She’s tangling with the cashier because she got charged for an extra bag.
The poor cashier—a kid with a taut ponytail, neon nails, and a SpongeBob hoodie that’s making me dizzy just looking at it—chews her gum in resignation.
Right behind Granny Pi, there’s a guy in gray sweats, headphones on, so deep into his phone that if something blew up he’d miss it. I swear he’s telepathically bagging his tuna, because he doesn’t look up even to check the specials.
And—of course—what I needed to complete the absurdity combo: the blonde. Parked right behind me. Her breath grazes the nape of my neck, and I’m a bundle of nerves, on high alert.
"Hi, Miss Mystery."
Give me a break. Miss Mystery, me? Fine, but unless you come with a consolation prize, don’t even try.
I want to crack up laughing in her face and, at the same time, run and dive headfirst into the frozen-food chest. And those eyes…
polar-ice blue, seriously. Sneaking sidelong looks at her and not losing my cool is damn hard, so I pretend I’m fascinated by the gum selection, which is saying something.
And suddenly—bam—something tugs at my head. A scalp stab. I whip around, and the blonde, all dignified, is caught with her hand halfway to stealing my DNA.
"Are you fucking stupid or what? Did you yank out a hair?" I practically shout, because my Alaska, projects-mode, kicks in, and I don’t care if we’re in the grocery store or the freaking White House: nobody touches my scalp for free, least of all this madam of suspense. Injustice flips my switch.
But the chick plays dumb.
"Oh, me? I don’t know what this girl is talking about."
Witch. But classy.
The cashier, who’d been on autopilot with her gum and her tacky hoodie, brandishes her pen like a standard-issue baton.
"What’s going on here, ladies? No fights at my register, okay? Just saying—for the cameras and because getting a brawl on my record docks my pay."
I fantasize that TMZ suddenly shows up and shoves a mic in my face, but what I actually have is a circle forming around us: the lady of decimals leaves her total half-done, the guy in sweats pulls out an earbud and tunes in.
I seize the spotlight, get bold, and point at the blonde.
"This blonde yanked out a hair! From my scalp, not from my bun! She rips out my DNA and we all just call it a day."
She, of course, goes all Virgin Mary with perfect eyebrows, tilts her head, and acts like I’m some poor lunatic.
"I don’t know what she’s talking about… I just wanted to buy some oranges, like any decent person."
I ALMOST HAVE A RAGE-INDUCED HEART ATTACK.
The freaking gall! And the crowd, obviously: the court of public opinion has already ruled, and not in my favor.
The math teacher shakes her head, the guy in sweats hunches like, "Not getting involved, I’ve got an Uber waiting," and the cashier—the queen of messy drama—finishes me off with the killing blow:
"Honey, relax. No fights and no hair-yankers here. If you’re gonna get all riled up like that, go to the health food store and grab yourself an XXL chamomile—they’re on sale and you need one more than anyone."
I hold on to my pride and what’s left of my hair, laser the blonde with a glare as she pins me with a frozen little smile.
She’s convinced she won the round. But no, sweetheart.
By my well-planted ovaries, this isn’t over.
Maybe I’ll walk out of here without dignity and less hair, but my pussy will still be firmly in place.