The Six Feet Between Us

"Back so soon?" the attendant asked.

"Yeah, I, uh... forgot something." Why I lied, I'm not really sure, especially since I've never been any good at it. I felt her eyes still on me as I headed straight to the bread aisle again, as if I were already a regular customer on only my second visit. This time, I grabbed a long loaf of thin sliced bread, just in case I needed twenty or so backup slices as a contingency.

"Hmm," she scoffed as I approached her plexiglass prison cell. "You 'forgot' more bread?" she asked suspiciously, even using air-quotes to emphasize the word 'forgot.'

"Well, no, not exactly," I sheepishly admitted.

"So, what happened? Or were you just needing a reason to come see me again?"

"Huh? No, I just kinda burned it."

"Ha!" her cheeks rose high to her eyes as I caught her smile for the very first time.

I smirked in embarrassment.

"Wait, for real? You 'kinda' burned a whole loaf of bread making a grilled cheese?" Again, with the air-quotes.

"First of all, it was only a half-loaf, but what can I say? I've got mad skills in the kitchen," I joked, feeling slightly less nervous around her.

"I don't know—seems a little fishy to me. You got back awfully quick for burning through a whole loaf of bread. You sure you didn't just want to see me again?"

"Half a loaf, thank you, and it's the truth. I'm only like three houses from here."

"Wait, you bought the Simmons place?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Do you have those stupid looking pottery things on top of your chimney?"

"Yeah, that's me. Wait, you think they look stupid?"

"Uh, yeah. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought you'd like them."

"Sorry, not a fan. Maybe an old lady would... maybe."

I'd heard the phrase 'smiling eyes' before but I never understood it until that moment. As she tried her best to keep her straight face, it was her eyes that betrayed her.

She rang me out, rewarding me with a less guarded smile this time, as I headed to the door.

Once again, the older woman was on her way back in with uncanny timing. What were the odds that she frequented this little corner store as frequently as me?

"Oh! We meet again!" she chimed.

"Oh... uh, Hi..." I recognized her, of course, but had no idea what her name was. What would Miss Manners advise in this situation? "Um, have a good day, ma'am."

"You know, one more visit and you're officially a card-carrying regular," the older woman needled.

"Oh, leave him alone, Bubbe," the shop attendant butted in, giving me the escape I needed. "Good luck with round two."

"Thanks. See you in ten minutes."

"Ha! I just hope you come up with a better excuse for coming to see me next time."

Immediately, I could hear the older woman chatting up her new target as the door slowly closed behind me.

"What did he say his name is, dear? I think he likes you." the older woman meddled unabashedly before the door finally shut.

I wanted to linger to hear her response, but thought the better of it and headed home.

As I returned to my house, I heard a voice coming from the direction of my backyard. So instead of going through the front door, I followed my driveway to the back. The neighbor lady behind my house was out in her yard, singing in another language while hanging linens on a line to dry. I opened the back door to my house just enough to toss the bread on the counter, then headed back out to introduce myself.

I paused just out of sight at the corner of my garage, captivated by the sweet, tender sound. Her voice was mature, yet still smooth and silky.

Parlez-moi d'amour she sang, while hanging some sheets on the line and securing it with a clothespin. Redites-moi des choses tendres, her voice lilted and hung in the air. I had no idea what the lyric meant, but it sounded like a love song. Then again, what did I know? Everything sung in French sounded like a love song to me.

"Hello!" I called out while waving, hoping not to startle her, as I emerged from my hiding spot.

"Oh!" the older woman chirped, then quickly finished hanging a flat sheet before scurrying over to greet me. "Bonjour, nice to meet you." Her accent was thick and beautiful and undeniably French. "My name is Cécile."

"Hi, uh, bone-ju-er," my French was authentically bad. "I'm Paul. I just moved in."

"Bienvenue... eh... welcome to the neighborhood." Her mixing of English and French was charming.

"You have a beautiful voice, Cécile."

"Oh, I wouldn't have been singing if I knew I had an audience. But merci... thank you."

"Amélie?" I asked, unsure how to even pronounce it correctly, while motioning toward the rear window.

The woman suddenly displayed a more quizzical expression. She turned quickly toward her house, catching the child spying on us from her window.

Amélie didn't react quickly enough, though—a fact made evident by the sudden look of shock on her face, right before she disappeared behind her curtains.

" Amélie?! Viens ici tout de suite!" the older woman yelled. "Amélie!"

"I'm sorry!" I tried to interrupt, "I didn't mean to get her in trouble."

"Un instant, s'il vous plaît," Cécile called back to me while holding up a single finger, as if I should understand what she'd just said and, somehow, I did. She disappeared behind the hung linens, leaving me to wait awkwardly for her return.

Oh boy. I was genuinely afraid I'd stirred a pot. If only I understood what they were saying.

"Amélie, sors. Tu n'as rien à craindre," Cécile called out. "Amélie!"

The door slowly opened and young Amélie poked her head out. "Désolée

grand-mère," she spoke timidly.

"C'est bon, ma petite. Viens traduire pour moi." The woman's sudden tirade seemed to be calming now that the child appeared safely before her.

"Okay, I can translate for you." Amélie flipped a switch and was immediately speaking perfect American English as she took Cécile's hand and followed her back to the fence that separated our yards.

Why Cécile asked the child to translate, I wasn't quite sure, as she seemed to have a solid command of the English language herself.

"Comment est-ce qu'il connaît ton nom?" Cécile asked, her eyes fixed on me, while her voice was somehow directed to the child.

"She wants to know how you know my name," Amélie translated.

"Amélie, I'm sorry if I got you in trouble."

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I'm always in trouble." Then she turned to face the older woman. "Je lui ai dit de ma fenêtre, grand-mère. Ne m'en veux pas."

I had no idea what she'd said, but the word grand-mère stood out. It was the second time I'd heard Amélie say the word. grand-mère... grand-mère... "Grandmother!" I boomed loudly, though neither seemed to notice, as they continued their own conversation.

Amélie turned to face me again. "I just said I told you from my window and asked her not to be mad at you. I also told her you like to bake."

"You told her what?"

"Trust me."

They exchanged several more volleys between each other, always in French and no longer translated for my benefit. It took a few minutes of convincing, but Amélie seemed to be making some headway and soon, Cécile's countenance started to soften.

"Okay, fine." Cécile turned to face me. "Désolée... em, sorry, monsieur Paul. I worry for Amélie... and stranger men."

"Oh," I almost chuckled at her phrasing, but at least I finally understood what the commotion was about. "I'm sorry, Cécile." I kept trying to say her name as I'd first heard it. "I'm a good person but... well, you don't know that, do you? I understand why you'd be concerned. "

Between the challenges of language and an awkward first impression, the six feet between us felt as wide as the ocean.

"We'll talk again, oui?"

"Sure, Cécile, of course. Uh, oui."

My attempts to connect with her in her own language didn't go unnoticed and, it seemed anyway, that she appreciated it. A tenuous smile escaped her lips, which she quickly swallowed before turning toward Amélie and barking a few more commands at her in French.

They disappeared into the house, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Dammit! I forgot to get more cheese!

Not five minutes later, I found myself back at the corner store, internally beating myself up for being so inept that I couldn't even feed myself. I entered the store feeling like a complete idiot, just as the older woman customer was again leaving.

I noticed she nearly tried to backtrack, as if to pretend she'd forgotten something—just so she could hang around a little longer. But I guess she realized how obvious that would be as I stood there holding the door open for her. Still, she smirked smugly, as if she knew a secret she wasn't going to tell me.

"Ma'am," I nodded to the older woman, like a good cowboy should.

She patted my arm as she walked past, leaving me at the door, about to enter the corner grocery for the third time in less than an hour.

"Ah Ha Ha! You're kidding, right?!" The cute storekeeper boomed with laughter when she heard my voice and saw me standing there.

"No, I didn't burn anything this time!" I quickly defended. "I just don't have any more cheese, that's all." In hindsight, it wasn't much of a defense.

"Uh-huh," her voice oozed with the tone of disbelief. "I'm not stupid, you know. I know why you're really here again. It'd be easier if you just admit it."

"Excuse me? Admit what, exactly?"

"That you missed me and couldn't wait to see me again, of course!"

"Yeah, okay. Whatever." I was starting to act short with her, though I had no reason to. I suppose I was just getting irritated that I couldn't figure out how to feed myself.

"So, you admit it, then?"

"Come again?"

"Try to keep up! Just admit you wanted to see me again."

"Um, but I really did forget to buy some more cheese."

"Sure, you did," her tone dripped with sarcasm.

"I'm not lying," I tried to convince her, my voice turning even more stern, though she didn't seem to notice.

I'd never developed the skill of lying. I wasn't even mediocre at it. I was practically a walking lie-detector, always telling on myself. Similarly, I wore my heart on my sleeve, apparently. At least, that's what Mom always said. So, it struck a nerve to feel like I was being accused of lying, like my father always argued right before trying to slap the truth out of me—one of those 'inescapable fates' from my childhood, I suppose.

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say. Just like you 'forgot' the bread the last time." She just had to use those damn air-quotes on me again.

My brain recognized she was just playing and, yet, my hypersensitive emotions only heard her calling me a liar. I could feel my angry defensiveness welling up from within me, and though I knew it wasn't rational, I was powerless to stop my miniature childish tantrum from bursting forth. "I'm not a damn liar, alright?!" I leaned hard into the words.

The shocked look on her face was enough to jar me back to reality and as quickly as my ire was raised, it was replaced by a secondary emotion, shame. "Oh god... I'm so sorry..." I felt foolish and small and could no longer look her in the eye. I desperately wanted to hide.

"Hey... You know I'm just playing, right?" she asked apologetically, her voice turning suddenly tender like the tone a mother would use when her child scrapes a knee.

Though her voice was indeed calming, it somehow made feel even more embarrassed and childish for my outburst at the same time. "I'm really sorry. I've had a really long day, I guess. But that's not an excuse."

"It's just grilled cheese, Paul."

She remembered my name? I heard very little of anything she'd said after that.

"I can't tell you how many times I've burned something," she continued, sounding just as nervous as I was. "Believe me, I never hear the end of it from my family when I do, either. They're all like awesome chefs in the kitchen but, like, I can burn water."

She kept talking, faster than I'd heard her speak before, though her words barely registered. I was still stuck on the realization that she remembered my name.

A smile barely started to form on my face, which she clearly noticed because she stopped talking. It was already the longest conversation I'd ever had with a stranger trapped behind a wall of glass and quickly becoming one of the longest conversations I'd had with a beautiful young woman.

"Thanks for trying to cheer me up," I finally managed to speak.

"You mean, it didn't work?" she teased with a grin.

"No... it worked," I grinned back, still feeling embarrassed for my behavior. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm not any good at talking to pretty... er... I mean... I'm just sorry. You didn't deserve that."

Her smile was at once disarming and empathetic. "So, you think I'm pretty?" she teased.

The silence between us probably lasted half a second, but it was plenty long enough for a blush to start on my neck, just behind my ears.

She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows as if she was waiting for me to answer her.

Now my cheeks felt warm. "Well, sure. I mean, you are pretty... so..." I looked away, afraid my face my melt from the heat now radiating from it.

But she was starting to blush, too, which somehow made me feel like I'd won something.

"Well... I guess I'll go get some more cheese now." I headed back to the refrigerator section.

"Hey, Paul?" she called out after I was already several steps away. "Why don't you just get a real sandwich next door?"

I quickly returned the front of the store. "The consignment shop?"

Her giggle was delightful. "No, of course not—the deli."

"The deli? There's a freakin' deli next door?!"

"Oh god, you really do need help, don't you?" she laughed again. "Listen. If you can wait for me to close up, I'll take you next door and introduce you to the Breitmans and we'll get you a proper sandwich."

"Yes! Definitely! I won't complain about that!"

I figured I should wait outside and as soon as I heard the door close behind me, I took a couple of steps closer to the main road. She wasn't lying. Had I only walked another twenty paces past the corner store, I would have found Breitman's Deli all on my own. But being escorted by the kind and charming shopkeeper seemed like a much better outcome.

My eyes lit up when she came out of the shop and smiled at me, seemingly pleased that I hadn't just left. I admit, a small part of me wondered if she wasn't going to escape out the back.

I was even more pleased when she turned around to lock the front door, granting me a free pass to admire her form for the first time. I already knew I was drawn to her—her compassionate spirit, her cute face, the sound of her laugh. But now I had even more to add to my list of favorite things about... well... Ray.

Okay, can I just say it? I wasn't a fan of her name. Maybe it was associative, since the only Rays I knew were men who were fighters—one was a famous pro boxer who practiced his craft in the gym and the ring and got paid handsomely for it—the other was my father, who didn't.

But beyond that, there was just something about the name that didn't fit her—besides the obvious, that it's predominantly a man's name. Some names just seem to fit certain people—like bullies named 'Butch' or mobsters named 'Vinny.' This captivating young woman with beauty to match just didn't seem like a 'Ray' to me.

"Ready?" she asked, interrupting my internal speculations.

"Yeah... I could eat a horse."

She giggled as if she'd never heard that line before. I'd recite silly quips all day if it meant I could keep hearing her giggle.

"Well, I don't think they serve horse here, but I bet they'll have something you'll like."

We had no sooner entered Breitman's Deli than the doorbell stopped chiming and three generations of deli-men started their raucous greetings.

"Ray!" yelled the oldest of the three. "Hey Eli, Jacob, look! Ray's here!"

"Ray!" boomed the middle-aged one, who I presumed represented the middle generation of the three.

"Well, hello, Ray," the youngest of the men joined, as well, but with a patronizing tone, as if he was trying way too hard to sound cheerful. "Bubbe says you have a boyfriend. Is it true? Is this him?"

"Oh god," Ray whispered under her breath, then unexpectedly grabbed my hand and took a half step behind me.

I wish I could say there were fireworks or jolts of electricity at the first feel of her fingers touching mine, but the situation was simply... strange. The shopkeeper was almost cowering behind me, as the teenager suddenly took several aggressive steps toward me, like a black bear making a bluff charge to see how I'd react.

I stood my ground, as much from a feeling of sensory overload as bravery, though a part of me did want to flick my finger and send him flying across the room. If my father could do it, I was sure I could too. The thought was fleeting, though, since the specter of the other (older and much larger) men simply could not be ignored. Besides, I never wanted become 'that man,' anyway—ever.

"Listen, you lucky schmendrick," he sneered in my ear, only loud enough for me and Ray to hear, "you'd better take good care of her if you know what's good for you, understand?"

"Um... sure, skippy... you got it" I muttered, unsure what was even going on, but making it clear I wasn't exactly intimidated by the youngster.

Ray squeezed my hand in an effort to not laugh, though a barely audible snort still escaped which both I and the young man noticed. The false bravado evaporated from his face, replaced with embarrassment at her quiet giggle.

She seemed to find her courage again and for a short slice of a second, I wondered how she had sensed what was about to happen.

Just when I thought things couldn't get stranger, an older woman came barreling from the kitchen, an old straw broom in one hand and a vinyl glove covering the other. This, it turns out, was 'Bubbe,' the same woman I'd met repeatedly at the corner store.

"Leave him alone this instant, Elijah! You've only just met him!" she commanded with an authority that made it clear who the boss was in this establishment.

Eli's shoulders dropped as he turned and moped his way back to his place behind the counter. By the time it took him to return to his perch, Bubbe had ditched the broom and glove and had made it clear across the store.

"Oomph!" Most of the air left my lungs as the woman gave me a bear hug.

Unable to hold back this time, Ray started openly laughing. I looked over to her, just in time to see her eyes bug out as she, too, was pulled into the bear hug. "OH!" she squeaked.

"Welcome to the family!" she proudly announced, as if the whole thing was some sort of bizarre ceremony. She took a step back and put her hands on her hips, as if she was expecting something from me.

Was that a cue? Was I supposed to now kiss the bride? Give a speech? Say 'Amen' or 'Cheers' or 'OPA!'—no, that's a Greek thing, isn't it?

"Um..." I looked to Ray for help, but found none, just a smug grin waiting to see what I would do. "Is this how you greet all your new customers?" I asked somewhat timidly.

A chorus of laughter roared from the counter as all three men applauded... well, two of the three, anyway—Eli couldn't help laughing, but kept his hands in his pockets.

Bubbe pinched Ray's cheeks and said "This one, I like... Bubbe approves," which caused Ray to blush. "Does he have a name, Miri?"