“Danielle,” she said, and walked away, adjusting the grocery bags in her arms. A celery stalk and the end of a loaf of French bread were sticking out the top of the bag, just like you see in the movies or staged ads. A child followed behind–a girl, probably only two and a half or three. Danielle took long strides, and the child had to hurry to keep up. She kept looking over her shoulder to make sure the child was still coming, and not distracted by a dandelion or a stray cat.
But for now I was the distraction. The strange man that held the door open. The child kept turning to gaze back at me, and I could see her deep brown eyes from half a block away. She had light brown skin and bouncing curls that she got from her fair-skinned mother. But the child smiled, something I could only guess she got from her father.