The Accomplice

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Garfield kept thinking about Mrs. Ennis whenever he had a chore to do that did not require thought. He had checked the open stock in Section D, the canned fruit juice and fruit, drawn the necessary cases from stores, checked the most recent retail sheet on brands and sizes, and was now razoring the cartons open and banging the top of each can with the purple calligraphy from the self-inking stamp 2/97¢ 2/97¢ 2/97¢ and putting the cans onto the open display. That was when he would think of how, when you saw her pushing a supermarket cart down one of the fluorescent aisles, pale hair long and thick and glossy, and wearing one of those bright beach coats of hers, and sandals, her legs bare and sturdy and a deeper golden brown each day, you could think she was one of the college kids home in Florida for summer vacation.

2/81¢ 2/81¢ 2/81¢ and he would have in his head the very vivid picture of that little trick she had of lowering her chin, tilting her head, looking up at him in a slanty amused way, and with a slow smile like a sharing of secrets when there were none to share, she would lift her head in a way that would snap the fair hair back, and, as the smile faded, give him a blue-eyed look of challenge before turning away.

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