The loner:

He slid from the driver's seat of an RV; not a glamorous luxury liner of the highways, just a battered little eighteen footer. The scrapes and scratches that claimed most of the paint spoke not of urban traffic, but uncharted trails far from established campgrounds. Dressed in rugged jeans that had obviously seen years of service and a blue work shirt that hung on him like a sack the man was a perfect match for his vehicle. The hair and beard that framed his face at first glance seemed grey with age, but a closer look would show that it was just washed out by years of exposure to fierce desert sun and dry desert air, an untended thicket. His legs flowed smoothly with a sure stride. The upper body was carried along by the legs like a separate entity, not participating in the act of walking. His shoulders pulled forward to bracket his chest, which made his arms hang as much in front as down his sides. Had they swung with his stride his hands would have struck against his thighs. It was easy to imagine his hands, free of the normal business of locomotion, carrying a rifle. Here in the parking lot they hung idle, untended extras just along for the ride. Each leg bumped lightly into a hand as it came forward, causing a reflex of motion through the fingers. His head also rode out front, on a neck that thrust forward from the shell of back and shoulders with a turtle's determination. He swung his head from side to side slightly, rolling bright eyes further with the motion, scanning the blacktop, resting on nothing. His head moved in a steady rythm, but it was not the same beat as the legs, and the discord was striking.

The couple:

Like many Asians, their age could not be determined from their features by western eyes. The man's cap was an obvious clue, a proud cap with USN emblazoned on the brim and 'Navy Chief' in an arch above the semi-circle of cropped black hair that showed above the adjustment strip. The cap of a proud retired sailor who had done enough time to make chief, and probably didn't just jump at retirement as soon as he had his twenty years in. In their fifties at least, more likely sixties. Touches of grey in her bowl of black hair offered support to the estimate. She stood as close as possible to her man, shoulder against his but discreetly behind, breast distorted against his upper arm, touching at hip, thigh, even the side of her foot nestled beneath the cuff of his pants. When the line moved he stepped off in exact time with the opportunity, leaving an after-image of himself in her body. She moved with a slight limp, taking two steps to regain contact and settling back into position. Their turn came, and they stood apart without a word spoken. She understood that he needed to be cleared for action; access to pockets, wallet, exact change. Unimaginable that he should trust the cashier to handle the transaction otherwise. Black eyes flickered over the scene, catching every keystroke on the register, narrowing when an item had to be passed over the scanner twice, seeing every item into a bag, every bag safely into the cart, and reading everything that appeared on the monitor. Perhaps this attention would save him from a thorough review of the receipt, or maybe he would compare the receipt line by line with the electronic images committed to memory. She watched their groceries as they passed across her vision on the belt, immobile. He took the cart and left without a word. She collected the receipt with a soft "Thank you," and folded it carefully into precise quarters, then shuffled in his wake. Her limp was more pronounced as she obviously hurried, but she could not rush enough with decorum to keep the distance between them from growing, so he steadily pulled away.

The manager:

The brown vest was tight over the mannish shirt of the management uniform. Her hair, dark with just a hint of red, was twisted into a severe coil. Simple studs in her ears continued the effort to present a solidly professional image. But the tight vest that held in her breasts accentuated her other curves, and the pulled back hair revealed the delicate lines of her neck, and nothing could hide the sparkling life of her eyes. She has two smiles. One is a professional smile, the standard of someone who faces the public every day. It isn't false, and to the average customer passing through it is certainly pleasant enough. But for those who have been in the light of the other smile it is a hollow shadow. That other smile is a beacon that lights her face and flashes from the mischievious eyes. She hurried down the aisle conveying clear purpose that was probably lost on the gangling youngster trailing her. An extra foot of height allowed him to keep up using nothing more than the ordinary adolescent shuffle that he no doubt expected would carry him through life. Clearly not the time to try to ignite that smile, so I let her pass, but I missed its glow.