How to Disappear Completely at IGA

A Field Manual

The grocery store at 8pm is where relationships go to die quietly.

I watch you in the cereal aisle, comparing prices with the intensity of a philosopher. Your cart contains: almond milk, a single sweet potato, and a bottle of cheap wine that says “I’m not okay.”

We make eye contact near the frozen peas. You smile like someone who’s practiced in the mirror. I wonder who left you. I wonder if they know they’re in my next novel.

“You come here often?” you joke.
“Only when I want to feel human,” I answer.

You laugh turns into a cough turns into tears. I pretend not to notice. The fluorescent lights hum their approval.

At checkout, you let me go ahead. Our hands brush when I place the separator on the conveyor belt.

Neither of us says asks for a number.

Some connections are measured in centimeters and expired coupons.