I spotted them in the soft-drink aisle, having a grand time. The man was standing on the back of a shopping cart and had long, messy hair the color of honey. It streamed behind him as he careened down the aisle. The woman was grabbing items from the shelves and tossing them in the cart.
My husband had left me five months earlier. Grocery shopping was a task we’d done together on the weekends, and the first time I’d come here by myself, the cashier had asked, “Where’s your buddy?” I’d managed a shaky, noncommittal smile, and her own smile had faltered as she’d suddenly realized. Now I came only on weeknights and always chose a line where the cashier didn’t know me.
