Something in the Way

by Gale Huxley

There was something in the way. 

It had been like this for a long time. A year was an eternity when there was a person, a group, an animal—something—dictating where she went and what she got. Time and reality became more layered as she was made to pay attention to them. 

It began in the frozen food section at CVS during her lunch hour. The microwave in the break room had been working, so the day had been off to a good start . She could tell it was functioning because she smelled Lean Cuisine as soon as she'd arrived at work. The scent made her crave an Oven-fried Chicken with Buffalo Mac & Cheese High Protein Bowl so much that her tongue stung at the thought of the scalding liquid almost-cheese. 

She left the glaring heat and walked into the cool, desaturated store, not pausing to look at the fluorescent orange stickers on the candy, lip gloss, or headbands with American flags attached by tiny springs that jiggled without being touched. She glanced at the refrigerator containing the third-from-the-front Dr Pepper that would be hers before turning on aisle twelve where there was a man in her way. 

He stood in the center of the aisle, contemplating the selection of chik’n nuggets. His blue water balloon eyes squished from his sockets, cheeks popping from his bones, dried lips bubbling with pus that pushed through the crevices of his teeth—everything displaced and bobbing as he stared at the freezer, then at Heather, as if he could see five seconds into the future to where a centimeter below her eyes would be. 

She opened her mouth. A wheeze rose from her lungs. She backed away and exited the store. The microwave was broken when she returned to work. Someone had forgotten the spoon in their takeout again. 

When she told her best friend Brandon about the man, he’d said, "What if the guy had been spacing out when you walked his way? CVS inspires reflection." And, "You of all people should not be afraid of ugly."

Heather didn’t relent. She could sense it was the start of something that wouldn’t end unless she did something about it. Which meant this could go on for life, or, forever. 

The next day, she went to a bar near her home, armed with a culinary romance taken from a Free Little Library. When she entered the women's room two beers later, a little girl stood blocking the narrow path to the stalls. The girl looked up at her, resting her gaze just below Heather's eyes before shoving her hand flat to her mouth. Shards of candy fell to the tile as the girl ate, licking and biting at her sugared palm. Heather heard crunching in her ears as she slammed the door behind her. 

From then on, everywhere she needed to be, she had to find an indirect way to get there. 

Anything she wanted, she had to forgo.

Because there was a deer with sparkling eyes standing at the entrance of her office building, she had to go around back by the dumpster and bang on the metal doors until someone let her inside. 

Because Chun-Li stood on the neon carpeted path of the arcade where she’d agreed to meet a man for a first date. This guy told her to call him Sweetie. He’d seen her enter, then turn away from him. He looked down at his black skinny jeans and left before she could reach him.  

Because a tall woman hovered over her aisle seat, leading Heather to be banned from Spirit Airlines. She’d asked for another seat, tears streaming down her face as she pressed herself to the cockpit door. There would be no Miami, no Caribbean cruise. 

There were friends, clothing, and groceries friends left behind because of a man adorned in ermine fur, slumping people, and three times, a coyote—the same coyote. 

She never approached. 

Only once did she say something. 

Her sister had just given birth to her first child. She’d found no trouble entering the glassed, modern hospital, walking through the high-ceilinged lobby, taking the elevator. She’d felt light and giggly but also hulking as she walked through the maternity ward, searching for room 303. She struggled to find the number, so when she saw a nurse wearing a white dress and bonnet, she called to her from down the hall. Heather has yet to meet her nephew. 

Something has been in the way for one year and three days. 

Heather lay flat in her backyard. The cottage she rented had been her sole haven.

The man wore a brown uniform. He had been standing at her front door holding a large envelope. She was almost certain he worked for UPS, but she couldn’t risk it. She went around to the back of the house and climbed the rod iron fence, ripping her pantyhose for the fourth time that month. 

She'd landed in a low squat, but lost her balance, tipping over onto her back with a thud. She relaxed her body into the ground, thinking, what was another minute? The hard day of avoidance, of not getting, brought her home two hours later than she'd promised. Brandon would be waiting. 

Through a lost job and strained relationships, Brandon had waited as she walked labyrinths, doing her best to appear the same. He never had a problem getting to where he wanted, needed to be. 

"In truth," he’d told her after she’d apologized for being late again, "you don’t seem that different to me. Just more dramatic.”

Heather put away the now-crushed spaghetti, jar of sauce, and frozen garlic bread, noticing the soggy remains of cereal left by the sink that hadn't been there that morning. She turned off the kitchen light and whispered, "beeeeed,” hanging her heavy head as she walked down the hall to her bedroom. Brandon stood by the bedroom door,  wan and expressionless, not quite looking into her eyes. 

“Uh, excuse me,” she said, shouldering past him. His skin gave in too much to her body. She heard him sigh behind her like a balloon releasing its air. She turned and saw his shadow spilling all over himself, but not staining the floor. 

Heather leapt into bed in a single stride. The Brandon she knew went on snoring undisturbed next to her. She rolled him over to make room and did not leave the twin mattress again until she had to decide between peeing herself or walking to the bathroom, now armed with incantations:

“Excuse me.”

Or,

“Hey, you’re in my way.”

Gale Huxley lives in Atlanta, Georgia. Her work has been featured in Tangled Locks Journal, The Plentitudes, and Gravity of the Thing, among others. Gale is working on her first novel, hosting a podcast titled Sybel Specter’s Strange Stories, and interviewing people about their inner worlds.