Fresh Mart was not fashionable, nor was it particularly efficient. One freezer case hummed too loudly, the produce department occasionally ran out of cilantro, and the express register seemed designed to attract customers with thirty-seven items. But Gloria had shopped there for twenty-two years. The people at the bakery knew she liked bread with a proper crust, and Mr. Patel at the customer-service counter had once searched the storeroom for a particular tea James preferred. Shopping there was one of the few small routines that had survived her promotion, increased security precautions, and all the ways public life could make ordinary life feel inaccessible.
She had chosen chicken, rice, greens, two avocados, and a box of ginger cookies she intended to pretend she had purchased for James. She had also spent seven minutes talking with a cashier named Beth about Beth's daughter, who was applying to colleges and worried she would be too far from home. Gloria did not give Beth a lecture about resilience. She told her that being scared of leaving did not mean a young woman lacked the courage to go, and Beth had smiled with relief. Gloria left the store carrying that brief exchange with her like something pleasant tucked beside the groceries.
At home, James Washington had already started his Saturday ritual. He would finish the newspaper, complain that its sports section had become an advertising supplement, and make coffee so strong that Gloria sometimes diluted hers with hot water when he wasn't looking. They had been married twenty-four years. Their relationship had survived moves, late nights at the courthouse, the illness and death of Gloria's mother, and several periods when one of them had needed the other to be stronger than usual. The simple promise of sitting together on their back porch, doing nothing important, had become a kind of luxury.
As Gloria lifted her last bag into the trunk of the Honda CR-V, a metallic clatter sounded behind her. A loose cart had escaped the return bay and started rolling down the slight incline between the parking rows. She turned, reached for it, and caught its handle too late to prevent the front edge from striking her bumper. The cart rebounded, wheels shuddering. Gloria stood for a moment, one hand still gripping the handle, and then crouched to examine the damage.
The scratch was about three inches long, narrow and pale against the silver paint. She ran her thumb gently along it and sighed. Ray at the neighborhood auto shop could probably fix it with less fuss than her insurance company would create. The cart itself held one abandoned plastic bag containing crackers. Without really considering what she was doing, Gloria placed the bag atop the groceries in her trunk while she steadied the runaway cart and moved it away from the car. A moment later, noticing the unfamiliar bag, she returned it to the cart and wheeled the cart toward the nearest return.