BRIAN

Above him a red eye blinks. The glass doors split open. He grabs a cart and circles it through the fruits and vegetables, and then the bakery, spotting her there. She wears black fleece and blue jeans, her hair tied up in a ponytail that bobs when she walks. In one hand she carries a basket weighed down by oranges and bananas. She stops to inspect the baguettes before tucking one under her arm like a child pretending to be slain by a sword.

She starts off again and he pushes his cart forward in such a hurry that he nearly strikes a boy who comes wandering around a table stacked high with boxes of doughnuts. He has a bowl-shaped haircut and sad brown eyes. Maybe he is eight, maybe eleven—Brian doesn’t feel particularly apt at judging the ages of children. “Sorry,” both of them say. And then the boy is on his way, but not before putting his hand up in a gesture of apology and departure.

His arm is covered in a raw-looking birthmark. It is hard not to stare. The skin appears smeared all over in raspberry jam. Brian forces his gaze elsewhere. He picks up a box of maple bars and pretends to read the label affixed to its packaging. Then his eyes jog back to study the mottled flesh. He wonders whether the children at school tease the boy, call him a freak, single him out at recess to throw sticks at and chase. He feels a sudden compulsion to rush over and tell him what to do, how to fight back, where to hit them and make them bleed so they will never bother him again.

But Karen is nearly out of sight, so he silently wishes the boy good luck and tosses the maple bars in his cart. The aisles are crowded with people. He has difficulty negotiating between them as his cart has a wobbly wheel that makes it veer constantly right. He abandons it near the meat counter, where he pauses, ten yards away from her. She is squatting, studying the stacks of chicken breasts.

The butcher—short, round-shouldered, his eyebrows as thick and arched as crowbars—comes toward Brian. He wipes his hands on his apron, leaving red smudges on the white fabric. Brian looks to her, looks to the butcher. “I’ll take—I’ll take some meat.”

The butcher pulls on a pair of white plastic gloves with a snap. “Afraid you got to be more specific than that.”

“Sorry. Steaks.”

“Sirloin? Rib eye? Filet? What?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I’m sorry. One second.” He makes an effort to study the glistening rows of meat. “I think I’ll have some New York strips. Two of them.”

The butcher doesn’t bother asking him to pick out a pair, snatching two on his own, wrapping them in butcher paper, shoving them across the counter, yelling, “Next!”

By this time she has noticed him. He takes the steaks and pretends to examine them while watching her out of the corner of his eye—when she rises from her squat and shakes her baguette at him. “I know you.” She is smiling. It feels good to be smiled at.

“Yeah?”

“You’re the key guy.”

“That’s me. Brian.”

“Brian the key guy.”

“Who unlocks the hearts of women all over central Oregon.” He isn’t sure where that comes from, but he says it in a silly voice and hopes it won’t be taken seriously. He imagines a glint of mischief in his eye and hopes it will find a reflection in her.

Thankfully she laughs. “Good line.”

“Thanks.”

This, he is thinking, this is what I always want life to be like. And then he notices her gaze, the way it bounces between his forehead and the rest of his face, uncertain what to focus on, what represents him, as when you speak to someone with a lazy eye and cannot determine which eye is the one that sees you. Under the fluorescent lights the scarred crater of his injury must be inescapable, like a cup carrying a shadow. “You’re wondering what happened?”

“What? Oh, no. No. I’m sorry.”

“I saw you looking at it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s hard not to look at. You’d have to try not to look at it.”

“No. That’s not—”

“Yes.” He brings his feet together as if the memory of the war alone makes him stand at attention. “You’ve seen the reports about roadside bombs, read the articles, though they’re harder to find these days, buried on page seven.” He forces a smile. “Anyway. That’s me. That’s my story.”

And now what must he seem like? A half-wild man with his skull carved out as if by an ice cream scoop, with no expression and who knows what thoughts? He should have worn a hat.

Then she does something unexpected. She rushes her hand to his, squeezing it, not a handshake this time but the smallest kind of hug, its warmth rising up his arm and seizing his heart like a drug. “I’m sorry.”

He remembers Portland—the Irish bar, the waitress pulling away from his touch, her teeth bared in fear. But Karen isn’t afraid of him. There is something about her, like the boy with the birthmark, something wounded, that makes her different.

“I think you’re—,” she says and he closes his eyes and holds his breath, waiting for any of the number of wonderful ways such a sentence might end. “I think there’s something wrong.” Her hand releases his and he snaps open his eyes to see her step away. She is looking at the floor and he follows her gaze there, to the linoleum glow, darkened by a pool of blood. His hand is wet with it. The steaks, poorly wrapped, are leaking from the butcher paper.

He holds them out as an explanation. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not hurt.” He looks around as though to find a paper towel or a wash basin. Blood continues to patter the puddle, making it larger, the red tongue of it reaching out to lick his boot. He can smell its vinegary odor. She continues to step back and he calls out to her, “I’m totally fine!”