Tank tops and head scarves

I thought I had come for the tank tops.

Bright, candy colored with just a hint of lace, the half-shirts were on special sale for just the weekend.

It had taken me almost 3 hours of rush hour traffic complicated by hydrochloric acid spills, angry commuters, several helicopters, and a truck that dripped life blood oil with every turn of the engine.

By the time I finally found the monolithic shopping experience somehow hidden between the parking garages and on-ramps, I was ready to turn around and call it a day, or rather evening.

But on the principle of the matter, and in the name of crazy low prices, the truck was parked- leaving the oil to slowly pool- and I went inside.

The capitalism was almost breathtaking in its totality. Everything- from the carpets, to the scent, not to mention the merchandise- breathed a collective agreement of affluence and possibility.

I, however, was determined to not fall sway. Regular priced merchandise was for those poor shoppers not able to distinguish between the glamorous facade and reality. I was there to buy sale items.

Hurrying by one of many bay windows looking out over the ever-lengthening lines of angry drivers, I almost missed them.

I saw the women first. They looked almost bored. Or if not bored, certainly out of place. Their covered heads were both bowed, talking quietly to each other and to the children in their laps.

The men were several chairs away. They sat with perfect posture, feet squared and shoulders back. They faced the window, and the setting sun.

Not going to lie, I slowed down, trying to figure out what they were doing.

Both men looked straight ahead. Their lips moved in a muttered cadence and they rhythmically leaned forward, ever so slightly, and then back again.

Not wanting to completely stop and gawk- my Mama did raise me with some manners- I kept going.

The scene sunk in a couple hundred feet later.

They were praying.

In the middle of all this, this Stuff, they stopped to follow the dictates of a religion that held higher precedence than the endless financial ebb and flow that surrounded them.

I wasn't sure if I was crying for the futility of their belief or from conviction as to the lack of passion that sometimes plagues mine.

I still hadn't figured it out when I left the store carrying a bag with more tank tops than I needed.

I walked back the way I came, this time slower, trying to catch a better glimpse.

It was too late. They were finished.