Chapter 1 – Bumping carts
They passed each other in the aisle, both intently studying labels to avoid eye contact, connected only by the dull hum of the fluorescent lights. Then, a sharp clack—the soft, clumsy geometry of locking wheels—shattered the trance. In the silence that followed, a flicker of an apology bloomed into something unexpectedly tethered.
“Have you ever noticed how the organic bananas are always in such a hurry to die?”
Her voice was a low, melodic murmur. She leaned into his space, her fingers hovering over a cluster of green-tipped Cavendishes with the focused intensity of a safecracker listening for a click.
The man blinked, his hand hovering near the cereal aisle’s endcap. He hadn’t expected to be addressed between the frosted flakes and granola. “Uh. Yeah, actually.” He adjusted his grip on the cart handle, rolling back an inch to give her space. “Like they’re in a hurry to prove they’re biodegradable.”
She snorted, tossing the bananas into her cart next to a six-pack of yogurt tubes and a jumbo box of Band-Aids. “Exactly. Like, congratulations, you’re compost. My kid’s lunchbox is gonna smell like a landfill by Wednesday.” Her eyes flicked to his cart—frozen pizzas, off-brand soda, a single sad zucchini. “Bachelor?”
His fingers twitched against the cart handle, suddenly aware of the wedding band digging into his skin. “Married, actually,” he said, too quickly. The zucchini in his cart looked even sadder now. “Just—grabbing some things for dinner. Wife’s got the kids.” He didn’t mention the tennis lesson, though it sat on the tip of his tongue like an unspoken apology.
The woman nodded absently, already pushing her cart forward. “Same,” she said over her shoulder. The wheels squeaked faintly, veering toward the dairy section. He watched her go for half a second—the messy ponytail, the frayed edge of her sweatshirt sleeve—before turning back to the cereal, suddenly unsure if he’d gotten the right brand. The list in his pocket crinkled when he shifted his weight.
Ten minutes later, he was squinting at the expiration date on a tub of sour cream when a cart nudged his hip. “Oops,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. Her cart was fuller now: milk cartons, a bag of oranges, something wrapped in butcher paper. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
He laughed, but it came out tighter than he meant it to—like the lid on that sour cream he’d been wrestling with. “Third time’s the charm, I guess,” he said, shifting his weight to let her pass. Except she didn’t pass. She lingered, her cart angled just enough to block the refrigerated aisle, one foot hooked around the wheel like she was anchoring herself there.
The butcher paper in her cart had a pink stain seeping through. “You grill a lot?” he asked, nodding at it. A stupid question, but it filled the space where he might’ve otherwise noticed the way her thumb rubbed absently at her ring finger, the skin there pale where a band usually sat.
“Me? God, no.” She grinned, and it lit up her whole face—suddenly, startlingly alive. “My husband’s the one who acts like he’s on a cooking show every time he lights the damn charcoal. Last weekend he made burgers so rare they mooed at the kids.” She paused, then added, almost conspiratorially, “I’m team well-done. Don’t tell him.”
“Promise I won’t,” he said, giggling like a kid with a secret. She laughed too, but it was already fading, her hand drifting back to her cart. “I’d better go. Need to pick up still a few stuffs before going back and prepare dinner for the team.” The word team hung there, sharp and deliberate where family should’ve been. His own cart creaked as he shifted his weight, the zucchini rolling against the frozen pizzas with a soft thud.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she pushed forward, her sandals scuffing against the tiles. He watched her disappear around the corner, the squeak of her wheels fading into the hum of the store. For a moment, he just stood there, sour cream forgotten in his hand, replaying the way she’d said team—like it was a joke only half of her found funny.
By the time he made it to checkout, his cart was heavier with things he hadn’t planned to buy: a bag of coffee beans, a bar of dark chocolate, the kind his wife never ate. The cashier’s nametag said Luis, but he didn’t look up as he scanned the items, his fingers moving on autopilot. Outside, the parking lot was washed in the orange glow of late afternoon, cars slotted neatly into their rows like a game of Tetris. He loaded his bags into the trunk of his sedan, the metal warm under his palms.
