I went grocery shopping at 2 a.m. Two men kept eye contact: the cashier and another. I paid quickly and departed.
I heard footsteps on my way home and saw the dude. “Why so fast, miss?” He remained behind me as I hurried. A scream broke the silence.
I turned and was astonished to see the cashier racing toward me, hobbling and waving. He shouted, “Stop!” Do not accompany him!” My heart raced. The man behind me froze.
I was unsure who to believe, as one was running at me with blood on his face, while the other was just standing there. The man behind me raised his hands to appear innocent. “He’s crazy,” he remarked.
“I did nothing. He came at me with a broom after I went outside to smoke.”
His shirt sleeve was torn, the cashier was panting. “He was lurking in the store two hours before he approached you,” he claimed.
I recognized him. He was banned for pestering women.”
I wavered between them, unsure what to do. Not to jump to conclusions, but the man following me and asking “Why so fast,” terrified me out.
I slowly left toward the register. Man behind me didn’t chase. He stayed there for a moment, then grumbled and ran down the street.
I wanted to leave quickly. “Reggie,” the cashier, glanced at me and said, “I’m sorry I scared you running like that. I saw him depart after you and couldn’t let it happen.”
I sincerely thanked him and we walked back to the store.
“I’ve seen that guy before,” he remarked. “He arrived last week. Stared at a girl in the cereal aisle for 10 minutes.
Made her weep. She ran without her basket.”
When we returned to the store, Reggie had cleansed his arm with tissues and alcohol wipes from behind the counter. Though wobbly, I sat on a bench by the magazine rack.
He asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. I suspect so, I said. “That could’ve ended differently.”
Reggie looked down after nodding.
I rarely get believed when I tell something’s wrong with someone. You did. Thanks for believing me.”
A slight smile.
“Thank you for chasing me.”
I went home, checking my shoulder twice, but the street was quiet. I had trouble sleeping afterward. I kept thinking about how narrow the line between normal and deadly is.
Between buying frozen peas and possibly never returning home. The next morning, I prepared coffee and pretended everything was normal. Something about Reggie stuck.
Both his actions and sincerity. Most wouldn’t have cared. I returned to the store two days later.
I debated whether to thank you again or check in. Reggie was wiping the counter. He grinned at me.
“You got back,” he said. A laugh. “Yeah.
Still alive.”
We chatted. Quite slow that night. Reggie worked two jobs.
This and an early morning bakery shift across town. He dreamed of opening a bookstore café. “That’s kind of perfect,” I remarked.
“Coffee and words.”
Yes, he smiled. “Something quiet. Peaceful.
People feel safe.”
‘safe’ lingered longer than others. In the following weeks, I came in late, sometimes just to talk. We never spoke about the man from that night again, but it connected us.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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