He angles his cart in the middle of the bread aisle. When she clears her throat, he mutters Sorry and looks at her feet. He’d singled her out because of her sandals, thinking it would be good to start with a solid foundation. He studies the length of her toes, shape of her ankles. When she clears her throat again, he moves aside.

—

There are so many vegetables to squeeze and thump in produce. He hears wheels squeak and sneaks a peek. She’s not as tall as the bread woman. She reaches for a tomato, her long fingers a tiny bridge. He takes in the creases of her knuckles and every chip in her bright red polish.

—

Most places, like the streets, are either too crowded or empty. He settled on the market as his Goldilocks. The thought conjures the fairy tale — which he repeated, word for word, the first time his mother read it to him.

—

His kindergarten teacher was amazed by how quickly he learned the alphabet and additions. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about.

—

He pretends he can’t read an expiration date on a can of beans and asks a woman with brown eyes to help him. When she leans close, he notes every fleck and speck in her retinas. Cadmium orange, burnt sienna, gold — the variations become a roar.

—

His popularity soared in third grade. The teacher blindfolded him in the front of the classroom, and he described what each student was wearing — stripes, polka dots, belt buckles…. Everyone cheered. He bowed, his face tingling.

—

Hey, freak, if you’re so smart, how many fingers am I holding up, middle school classmates would say, their hands behind their backs. He tried to explain. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten, freak.

—

Determined to ask the girl from math to prom, he sat next to her in the cafeteria. As he poured his chocolate milk into a glass, he said he liked her little gold birds … and the hoops she wore the day before, and the studs the day before that. Once he started, he couldn’t stop and complimented every pair she’d worn the past month. She changed tables. He sipped his chocolate milk. A missing boy smiled from the carton. He can see the freckles and the part in the lost child’s hair to this day. 

—

He could’ve built a woman from a single shopper. But it seemed as if that would be an invasion, make him feel like a stalker.

—

He’s a mail carrier and knows every bark and daffodil on his rounds. He can’t stop singing Please, Mr. Postman — sometimes backwards, as if that might bring a letter for him.

—

His memories swarm and buzz — some sting, some are honey, but all are relentless. Reading provides a respite. He becomes a regular at the library and develops a crush on a woman who works there. He once serenaded her with Marian The Librarian, then peppered her with details about The Music Man. She excused herself and disappeared into the stacks. They aren’t just facts, he wanted to say, they’re parts of me.

—

After imprinting the eyes in canned goods, he gathers lips near the cheese counter, cheekbones by the yogurt …. He studies the cashier’s loops and curls, loses himself in the sheen and texture of individual strands.

—

Home from the market, he stands at the window and studies a tree as a breeze riffles through it, then he closes the blinds, leans back in his recliner, and fashions a woman with long fingers, an orange-flecked gaze…. She smiles and holds his hand. He starts to list the cereal boxes in aisle 12. Instead, he takes a breath, pictures the underside of the maple leaf he memorized, and asks the woman about her day.

—

Holding the maple leaf in his mind, he heads for the library with some overdue books.

– David Henson

Author’s Note: We all collect details about the people around us, but what if you couldn’t help but remember every single one? This story explores the unexpected loneliness that might come with such a “gift.”