People have to shop for groceries sometimes, existential crises notwithstanding. Many an enlightenment has occurred, cart handle in hand, on the bread aisle or at the butcher counter. Will you stick with whole foods, unprocessed meats and produce, or will you fill your cart with plastic- and cardboard-wrapped food products that robots put together on conveyor belts? This may depend upon the state of your particular identity crisis, your psychosocial struggle of the day. She had been thinking, ever since he'd stopped talking and slammed the door on his way out and left her there pain-stunned into silence, about the patterns of her life that had conditioned her to just stand and absorb spite and vitriol and violence and accusation. She grabbed a bread that claimed to contain seven whole grains, though if pushed she couldn't have named more than two different grains, and one of them wouldn't even have been a true grain. Memories of her childhood family, loving if a bit aloof and distracted, provided no obvious reasons, no excuses. What should she have said to him? What could she have said to counter his condemnation? The fragile shell of civilization that we live in requires that you hold it together in the supermarket. When I pass your cart I don't want to see you trembling, your chin scrunching into that shaking-and-drawn-down-about-to-cry shape. I don't want to see the first tear fall from the building pool in your bottom eyelid and roll down your cheek into the crease in your nose. I'm not made of stone, after all, and I've got shopping to do. She first lost it altogether in the cosmetics aisle. It began with one spontaneous and unexpected gasping sob, and then she clasped her hand over her mouth and held her breath for a moment, terrified of falling apart here. Anywhere but here. Despite her best efforts, however, her back began to spasm and her mouth tore open with three of those loud, croaking sobs, the kind that you make when you're trying not to cry. Then she just had to cry to make the noises stop. Two younger men started to turn down the aisle and then stopped short and turned quickly in mortal social terror. To complete her consumer humiliation, her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor, sobbing like she hadn't since childhood. The Thomasons, a couple in their sixties, she his second wife and he her fourth husband, had only come to the store for cat food. Instead of a push cart, he carried one of those hand-baskets. It was Beverly Thomason who knelt, despite her arthritis, beside her and put a hand on her back, patting and saying, "What's this now? It's going to be alright. Oh dear. What's this about?" Arthur Thomason stood there, his first trip into the cosmetic aisle, and glanced around at products that were mostly mysterious to him. "Are you okay, dear? My goodness. You're breaking my heart like this. Don't cry, dear." Beverly's eyes moistened with terrible empathy and, putting a hand on each of her shoulders, she persuaded the younger woman up and into her arms, each looking over the shoulder of the other. Arthur thought about going to get the cat food, but decided it would be inappropriate. "It's okay, dear. My goodness." It was the supermarket and the two women held each other and cried. James Taylor sang over the store PA system. She wondered if maybe he was right. Maybe she deserved all of this. "Please don't cry," Beverly sniffed. "You're just breaking my heart."
Hello, friends. It really will be okay. Don't you think?
Later. Love.
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