Across the Lot

I saw her crossing the parking lot at the grocery store, only from the back, as she was walking away, determinedly. I summed her up in a few seconds, shallow, I know, perhaps, but the images and thoughts swelled in my mind, ripe, rushing and full as a stream in March. She wore tan capris, a dark tone, like coffee with milk, and I could tell by her panty lines that she was definitely not wearing a thong. At the likely decade of her sixties, perhaps leaning ever toward the seventies, she looked like a suburban, matronly, country-clubbing, Grandmother. Her hair was, Just So, curled under at her shoulder, barely touching her navy Izod top. I saw a glint of gold on her wrist. She was treading with purpose, away from me and the thought came to my head…

Was she going home to someone who adored her?