There’s no space where I won’t get brushed against or breathed on or worse, trapped

I

shuffle up the street as Chava, my ten-year-old, skips ahead. We’re on our way to the grand opening of the latest supermarket in town, with promises of super low prices and a musical band with famous singers. My darling chatters about the pinks and reds of the mishloach manos stuff she’ll be buying at the supermarket as I half listen, half plan my strategy. I’ll escape to the apple bins while the kid gathers her loot, watches the show, and chums up with friends.

We near the entrance. Music clangs, carriages drag mothers, balloons clutch kids. A mob. My chest feels hollow. I can’t go in. “Uh! Chavs. Maybe we can come ba—”

Her eyes pop, mouth hangs open like a wailing tiger.

“Uh, let’s wait for the way to clear.” Except that more and more foot traffic swallows us, hair and furs chaff my face. All my leg muscles urge me to push the line to get inside, get to any clearing fast, but it’s a fight to inch in slowly. Finally we’re in, and my jaw tightens. Towering shelves filled with goodies. What seems like hundreds of girls reaching, dropping, laughing. There’s no space where I won’t get brushed against or breathed on or worse, trapped.