Portland Grocery Clerk
"She works at the international grocery in Portland—a thick ebony Somali widow who knows every product. When he comes looking for home flavors, she guides him through the aisles. Some shopping happens after closing."
The International Market on 82nd has everything.
Spices from three continents, meats from halal sources, vegetables Americans have never heard of. Waris has worked there for eighteen years.
I come looking for home.
"Xawaash? Where would I find xawaash?"
"Warya—American Somali?" She emerges from behind a shelf. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of grocery expertise. Ebony skin, store apron, the knowledge of thousands of products. "Follow me."
She leads me through aisles packed tight. Finds the spice blend instantly.
"What else do you need?"
"Everything. I'm trying to cook like my mother."
"Mashallah." She smiles. "Then we have work to do."
She guides me through the store.
Item by item. Explaining, suggesting, remembering things I'd forgotten.
"You know everything," I say, cart full.
"Eighteen years. You memorize." She checks my selections. "Good choices. Your mother would be proud."
"She passed last year."
"Innaa lillaahi..." She touches my arm. "I lost my mother thirty years ago. The pain doesn't leave. It just changes shape."
"How do you carry it?"
"By feeding others. Food is love." She meets my eyes. "What you're doing—cooking her recipes—that's how you keep her alive."
I become a regular.
Every week, same time. Waris helps me find ingredients. Tells me stories about Somalia. Laughs when I mispronounce things.
"Your Somali is terrible," she says one evening.
"Then teach me."
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I'm a grocery clerk. Not a teacher."
"You're both. You've taught me more about my heritage in three months than anyone."
"Waas." But she's pleased.
"Why do you work nights?"
The store is quiet. Closing time approaches.
"Because night is lonely." She stocks a shelf. "My husband died eleven years ago. The house is too empty. So I work."
"You've been working for eleven years to avoid going home?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds sad." She pauses. "It is sad. But sad is better than lonely."
"They're not the same?"
"No. Sad has company. Lonely has nothing."
"Then don't be lonely tonight."
"Come to the break room."
The store is closed. Lights dimmed except for emergency exits.
"I've never brought anyone here," she says. "This is where I eat lunch alone. Where I cry sometimes. Where I remember."
"Let me be here with you."
"Wallahi?" Her eyes are wet. "You want to be in my sad place?"
"I want to make it less sad."
I worship the grocery clerk.
Among shelves of international goods. Her body is sustenance—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly. Everything I've been hungry for.
"Eleven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've fed everyone—never been fed—"
"Open up."
I lay her on the break room table.
Spread her thick thighs.
Feast on her like she's the rarest ingredient.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eleven years of hunger releasing. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I consume her pleasure until she comes three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—stock me—"
I strip. She watches with those expert eyes.
"Subhanallah—premium quality."
"All for you."
I push inside the grocery clerk.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I fill her among the stored goods.
Her massive body bounces. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"
I release inside her.
We lie on the break room table.
"The store opens at seven," she murmurs.
"I'll bring you breakfast."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi." I pull her close. "You've fed me for months. My turn."
One Year Later
I shop exclusively at the International Market.
And I stock more than my pantry.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best customer."
The grocery clerk who fed my hunger.
The woman who became my favorite aisle.
Always in stock.