“I want to buy something luxurious.” That’s what I told myself walking through the mall, as if I could purchase a cure for emptiness in the handbag department.
A woman floated past, a Louis Vuitton slung over her arm, a tiny dog riding inside, pedigreed royalty. That’s the kind of wealth I wanted. The kind of wealth where a twenty-thousand-dollar handbag doubled as a dog toilet.
Even the mannequins looked judgmental, their plastic cheekbones sneering as if they knew my credit score.
Everything gleamed behind glass. The sales clerk stood with her back to me, daring me to speak. Her posture said, if you belonged here, you wouldn’t need to ask. Money speaks for itself. When her eyes flicked over me, there was the faintest pause, as she double-checked the cues that signal status. Even the mannequins looked judgmental, their plastic cheekbones sneering as if they knew my credit score.
I glanced at my sneakers, cuffed rubber, frayed laces, and felt myself shrink. Then someone brushed me hard, shoulder to shoulder. Was I not even occupying space? The black chip on my shoulder knocked askew.
“Excuse me,” I said, dragging the syllables out, channeling my drama teacher.
My anger was never mine alone.
The woman who hit me looked up, eyes soft as honey, voice warm. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
Kindness. The nerve.
“Be careful!” I snapped, my tone plumbing depths of rage that had to do with roots she couldn’t see. I knew how I looked, a black person spitting fury in the middle of European luxury handbags. My anger was never mine alone.
She blinked, unoffended, and nodded.
My inner child, who once had beaten up a kid with asthma just to see what would happen, shoved a mannequin. Its designer handbag slid to the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment it was a schoolyard brawl. The mannequins toppled over one another and slumped in defeat. The sales clerk leapt into action. Vindicated, I felt justice had been served. My mood swung between my coronation and my collapse.
My husband had learned my rhythms. Nothing says devotion more than knowing a man is googling psychiatric clinics during your grocery runs.
An old man intercepted me. “What day is it?”
They always did, old men with flimsy questions, as if my fifty-year-old Black body was some kind of public utility, an Aztec clock built for their convenience.
“It’s the end of August,” I said, annoyed.
“Oh. I thought it was still summer.”
“Yeah, well.” I peeled away from him like a sticker, quickening my pace. He smiled at me anyway, which made me want to sprint.
I wasn’t ready to go home. I passed tourists savoring their end-of-summer ice cream cones, determined to get in their last licks. I kept walking – over the Old Bridge. Its saintly statues watched from above, unimpressed by the five thousand steps on my app. On the far side of the city, the grass and trees shimmered green and gold.
That’s when I saw it.
A lobster.
Its shell caught the sunlight, reddish-brown, claws flexed, antennae twitching. No fish market and no tank. The ocean just a memory. There was just me, sneakers, lip gloss, August air, the Neckar River alongside, and a lobster lying on the concrete.
For a minute I wondered: am I meant to take it home? I had asked the universe for luxury. But clearly, I hadn’t been specific, enough.
A small lobster, with claws. It wasn’t enough for dinner, and I wasn’t smart enough to keep it as a pet. I stared at it. And not knowing what to do, I took a picture of it – in its red shell on its concrete runway. Out of place but utterly itself.
Annabelle “Bee” Baumann is a writer, certified Stand-up Communication Coach, and Motivational Humorist who has spent over 20 years helping people sharpen their business communication. Based near Heidelberg, Germany, she is the author of Gurrl, You Ain’t Crazy and a TEDx speaker on embracing humor.
www.linktr.ee/
The story illustration is a painting by Chloe Tannenbaum. Published with permission from the artist.