Aisle 10
by Jordan Nishkian
The dust on the dashboard was more visible under the parking lot lights. So were the smudges on the inside of her Jeep’s window, which was just starting to fog. She made a note to clean it, even though she had been reminding herself of the chore for almost six months. She decided to call Stacy. The screen of her phone lit up, illuminating the dust particles that surrounded her. They were everywhere: in the passenger seat, at the back of her neck. They were in her nose, in the branches of her lungs, in the space between her thighs and her skirt. She crossed her legs and pressed “Call.”
Four rings, five rings. She glanced at the silver ring on her right hand. Stacy’s automated voicemail. “End Call.”
She envisioned a wrinkled, alchorexic cashier with cabernet hair standing behind the counter. She imagined her name would be something tragic like Ellen-May, and that Ellen-May would be a nosey fuck. She switched the silver band to her left hand. It was too big for that finger, but it would do.
She left her purse on the backseat floor and took her phone, keys, and a bunched-up twenty into Walgreens. Her heels clacked against the asphalt in a tight, static rhythm. Despite a potentially rainy forecast, the store had its door wide open. The heater made its effect on her, gradually smoothing the goosebumps the night air had left on her bare calves. Even though this Walgreens was only a block away from her studio apartment, she had never been in it. Aisle 7 had the latex. Aisle 12 had the cotton. She wandered towards the pharmacy. A woman with a blue shirt was positioning bottles of vitamins on a shelf.
“Family planning?”
“Aisle 10,” the woman said, pointing towards the very center of the store. Her eyes never left the shelf.
“Thanks.”
It was where she said it would be. Between the lube and the baby formula, small card stock boxes covered the slim strip of shelving. There were so many tests. Fertility tests, ovulation trackers, sperm counters, paternity tests, and right below eye-level the kind she came for. There were too many brands, colors, and 99%s. She chewed on a scar on the inside of her cheek. She had read somewhere that the inner cheek is made up of the same tissue as the vagina, and that may be a reason why blowjobs are so appealing. Her phone vibrated in her hand.
“Hey, Stacy.”
“Hey, what's up?” Shuffling sounds were loud on the other end.
“I'm overwhelmed,” she said, tossing her hair out of her face. A single strand got caught in a crack between her nail and the “Ballet Slipper” polish. She looked at her nails. Her cuticles were growing back, and the surrounding flesh was chapped from the recent torment of her hangnails. She made a mental note to set up an appointment with Kimmy next Tuesday.
“What's the problem?”
“I don't know which one to get.”
“I always get First Response.”
“That's the pink box, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, I'm picking up the kids. I'll call you back.”
Three beeps. Call ended.
She picked up the purple box: two Walgreen’s brand pregnancy tests for $13. It would do. She tried to conceal the box under her crossed arms, but her long-sleeved shirt was too tight and her arms were too thin.
She passed through the snack aisle to reach the check-out. There was only one cashier, a young guy around her age with a nametag that—to some relief—read “Miguel,” not “Ellen-May.” He was scanning the items of a couple deciding about what to do for dinner. He wanted Italian or Indian; she said she just wanted a decision. They both had crisp initials tattooed on their left ring fingers. She spun the loose, silver band with her thumb.
She glanced at the tabloid magazines. One reported that three celebrities; Drew Barrymore, Nicole Richie, and someone she didn't recognize had all been divorced and one of them was pregnant. Bummer. Nicole’s eyes looked wet and puffy, which was probably why her picture was dead center. The cashier handed the couple their receipt and wished them a good night.
She stepped up to him, grateful no one was behind her. She removed the purple box from under the tight grip of her arm and placed it on the grey counter. Without missing a beat, he scanned it and concealed it in a plastic bag for her.
“$14.76 is your total,” he said.
She smoothed out the twenty and handed it to him. He overlooked her eyes. The register drawer popped open, and a wave of coins crashed against their plastic compartments. He expertly plucked four little Abrahams, two dimes, and one big Abraham from his count.
“$5.24 is your change,” he said, dropping it into her expecting palm. She made sure she used her left. She only noticed then how quickly, quietly her fingertips were bouncing off the counter. He placed the receipt in her bag and slid her purchase towards her.
“They say it's supposed to rain,” he said.
She slipped her fingers through the plastic loops and nodded.
"Have a good night," he said.
She grew still and watched as he turned away from her, picking up a spray bottle and a damp, tawny rag.
Jordan Nishkian is an Armenian-Portuguese writer based in California. Her work has been published in Overachiever Magazine, The Kelp Journal, the New Plains Review, The Yellow Arrow Journal, The Plentitudes, and more. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Mythos literary magazine and has recently published her first novella.