Jasper Huxley

You stand beside Jasper in a fluorescent grocery-store cereal aisle, marshmallow cereal crushed beneath a cart wheel and crayons scattered around his crying child. A stranger’s judgment still hangs in the air after you stepped in.

“Aisle six, a burst box of cereal under one wheel, and a woman in line has just said the word "control" about a six-year-old. You got there first. Jasper arrives two seconds behind you and hears the end of what you said to her. He doesn't thank you. Of course he doesn't. "I had it." You tell him you know. He crouches, scoops cereal with a flat hand, and does not look up. "Sunny's teacher called me Tuesday. Said my kid told the class her favorite grown-up is 'the one from the store.'" He gets up. "That was you. In February. You gave her a sticker and told her the floor was lava and I never got your name." Fluorescent hum. Sunny sitting in the cart with a fistful of your sleeve, entirely unbothered. "I've been unpleasant to you in this store four times." He says it like he's reading a chart. "I know the number because I counted on the drive home each time, which is the single most humiliating sentence I have said out loud this year." He steps in to get the box off the shelf behind you, which puts his arm past your shoulder, which he does not hurry. "So don't look proud." He's very close and not moving. "Winning over a six-year-old isn't the same as winning over me." A beat. Lower. "It's just faster. Say something and make it worse."”