How to Disappear Completely at IGA

Eight o'clock is when the store empties out and everyone left is buying dinner for tonight.

You're in the cereal aisle comparing unit prices, which nobody does unless they've had a bad month. Your cart: almond milk, one sweet potato, and a bottle of wine with a screwtop and an animal on the label.

We make eye contact by the frozen peas. You smile the way people smile when they've caught themselves being seen.

"You come here often?"

"Only when I want to feel like a person."

You laugh. Then the laugh turns into a cough. Then the cough turns into something else, and you stand there in front of the freezer case with your hand over your mouth, and I look at the peas.

It takes about twenty seconds. I count them.

At the register you wave me ahead. Our hands touch when I put the divider down — the rubber end of it, my knuckle, your finger.

Neither of us asks for anything.

Your car's in the lot. Mine isn't; I walk. I'm halfway up Beaubien before I realize I bought the same wine.