Free Write – Getting to Know Darcie

Darcie. Just the sound of her name makes my internal wiring go on the fritz. Why did she have to come to the store at the same time as me? Maybe I’m just destined to forever live in a moment of suck.

Oh, there she is, her goofy hair sticking up like a beefeater’s hat. The baby section? I need to get closer but I don’t want her to see me. She used to pick on me for knowing more than she did about things she never cared about. Why did she care that I cared about something she didn’t give two shits about! It doesn’t make any sense, she doesn’t make any sense.

Uggs. She’s wearing Uggs and it’s still summer. I knew they were in style but how long has been since I last saw a pair of Uggs.. either they’re no longer in style or I have hopped out of the in-style social circle. I’m in my own style. I don’t really care what Darcie is wearing but at the same time I desperately want to know.

She used to be the type of girl, when I knew her, who had a lot to talk about. She never ran out of things to say about people she didn’t like. I mean, I could talk all day but nobody hung around long enough or stayed silent long enough to hear my thoughts on what it would be like if we had chlorophyll in our cells and stood in a sunny field for lunch. Oh shit! She almost saw me. Crap, my cart is still empty. I need to actually do some shopping here.

Perfect, just where I need to be, tampons. Why do they put the baby section right next to the tampons, condoms and other vaginal goodies? It’s like a candy store for women’s vaginas. Come on over, all of your vaginal needs sold in THIS particular 40×40 section of the store. Ok, men’s shirts. I can hide behind those since they’re nearby. Just for a moment..


Her face. How did she find me?! More importantly, why did she seek me out?

“H-hi Darcie,” oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, what am I doing in the men’s shirts? Quick! Think!

“Wow, I haven’t seen you in ages, this is so funny!” she touches her hair, “So how you beennnn?”

“Pretty good,” I start fondling a shirt, struggling to keep eye contact with Darcie’s big round head.

“Yeah?” She implies that she wants to hear more, her voice stabbing my brain and my brain stops working. The shirt I’d been touching starts to get a little damp, I look at my hand and there are black fuzzy poofs peppering my shiny palm.

“Yeah,” I look up and see her blank stare just waiting for me to say something interesting, “yeah, I’m going back to school, shopping for my dad”. Shit, fuck, what was that?! My dad’s dead! “My dad in law, dad,” I self-correct.

“Oh, oh well that’s nice,” her bulging black eyes dart to the shirt I had pre-fondled. It was a black shirt for a very large man with a folder-sized green rubber dollar sign in the center.

“Yeah, I’m still looking for the right shirt, err, how are you?” I glance at her handcart. There’s a pack of binkies, or bonkies, a couple of other random baby paraphernalia I know nothing about and a pack of the smallest tampons known to women, the world over. I mean, I have NEVER … I can’t even begin to describe how much I can’t stand Darcie. Even her choice in tampons makes my veins harden and burn.

“I’m doing great. I married Tony Kurt back in ’07. I’ve got three kids, two boys and a girl. My youngest is 33 months and my oldest is going to be 8 this October. I’ve been busy busy, busy mom, you know how it is,” she laughs at her own dumb remark.

Darcie Kurt!? I am absolutely positive she saw my face distort when I put those names together. As if I didn’t already hate her name, now there’s a Kurt involved. I start doing the math in my head, ignoring the fact that she’s still referring to her youngest in months well beyond necessary.

In the matter of two seconds I’ve already sized her up, looked her up and down and figured her life out. It’s the middle of the day, she’s not working. She doesn’t sound like she’s been to college. Tony Kurt is nothing more than a name to me, but I do recall he was a senior in high school when we were freshmen. I think he was into sports. She’s wearing in-style clothes I know nothing about, has a nice purse probably designed by someone famous and her hair is the kind of fake color only a real salon can master. She never had blonde hair. It’s blonde now. But it’s done well. Ugh, Darcie Kurt.

“Oh, there you are hunnie,” she breaks the awkward silence and turns toward the aisle, “This is Jan-Margaret, Tony, meet Jan-Margaret.” She moves aside to allow for a man in a wheelchair to wheel himself in front of me.

“H-hi,” I am shocked beyond shock, “It’s nice to meet you, Tony.”

Tony looks up a me, but he doesn’t say a word. His body is bent in places a body in motion can’t bend. He reminded me of Stephen Hawking. A gurgle and a nod from Tony and I’m looking into Darcie’s black holes.

“We met online,” she blurts, “And fell in love!”

Tony looked to be about 70.

Wow – I didn’t think it’d go there. But it went there. Thanks for reading!


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