A failed relationship isn't as upsetting per se, nearly as much the unexpected reminders of the joys of a great relationship. I don't walk around upset and deep in thought about what I could have done better, or how much I wish I was sharing moments with someone else. Even old pictures don't invoke lingering sentimentalism anymore, however, a trip to the grocery store can leave my heart exposed and vulnerable to the point of surrender. The grocery store is such a beautiful microcosm of day-to-day humanity.
This morning, a man about my age stood alone in line. He was dressed in dusty cargo shorts, work boots, a plain white T-shirt and his sunglasses were pushed up on his head just above his forehead. Tanned and strong, he stood there as the epitome of a hard-working, blue-collar laborer. As the cashier scanned his items, his gaze panned from the wad of cash he was thumbing in his palm to the running total on the screen. Bananas, blueberries, two boxes of cereal, milk, two cartons of orange juice: it was the recipe for a shotgun breakfast. The kind of things you buy when you are going to construct and consume right away, not even worrying about saving the rest for possibly tomorrow or the day after. When the breakfast itself is so much more important than the portions, or the three-quarters of the milk that will never be drank, or worrying that the cereal is going to go bad before you can eat it all. It's a beach breakfast, made right there and right then to be shared at no other time than when you're eating it together.
Our purchases are the stories of our lives, our days -- our relationships -- without even speaking a word.
I've never wanted a bowl of cereal so badly.
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