The scene: grocery store parking lot. Two days before Thanksgiving. Sixteen hours post-failure to indict Darren Wilson. White woman loading up her groceries. Black man walking in uniform from his place of employment — to his car, perhaps, or maybe, just to move his body during a break. He is beyond athletic looking, with a giant tangle of braids pulled back at the nape, reaching below his waist.
White woman dumps her clementines. “Fuck,” she says.
“I should have real problems, right?” she says. Not in apology for the swear word — goodness no — but to acknowledge grievous recent events.
He returns. Gets down on his hands and knees. Looks under the carriage of her car. They conclude in unison that the errant clementine — having rolled to the near exact mid-section of the car — cannot be reached.
That, today, feels like a miracle.