I was leaving the post office. She was arriving.
Through the glass, we saw each other approaching the doors.
We arrived at the doors at the same time, on different sides.
She pulled open her door for me and waited for me to walk out.
I pushed open my door and waited for her to walk in.
We stood there, letting all of the air conditioned air out of the post office, sizing each other up.
I’m seventy-one. She was at least 10-20 years my senior. Her hair was “done” and not a hair was out of place. She wore those Florida resort clothes that only snow birds back in New York for the summer can sport. “Go ahead,” she said, holding the door for me, a vicious smile spreading all over her “worked on” face.
“No you go,” I replied sweetly, ever so sweetly, never speaking the B word. I made a slight bow as I motioned her to walk through.
Her eyes narrowed and locked on mine before she walked through her own open door. Those eyes said, “It ain’t over, bitch. We will meet up again.”
I got in my car, put on my soft rock station, opened the windows, and sang along with my music.