Produce Section Epiphany

The papaya sat in my cart like an accusation. I'd never bought one before—didn't even know if I liked it—but Marcus had loved them. That was the problem with mourning someone who was still alive: the habits outlasted the relationship.

I moved to the produce section with the careful navigation of someone avoiding emotional landmines. The spinach was fresh, glistening with that mist supermarkets spray to make everything look more alive than it actually is. I dropped a bag into my cart, thinking about how Marcus always said I needed more iron in my diet. Always said it like he was diagnosing me, like my fatigue was a symptom rather than a perfectly reasonable response to working sixty-hour weeks at a job that made me question every choice I'd made since graduating.

My iPhone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It was probably him anyway, sending another one of those texts that hovered between friendly and manipulative. 'Just checking in.' 'Saw something that reminded me of you.' The slow erosion of boundaries that had made me leave in the first place.

An older woman reached past me for an orange, her arthritic fingers moving with practiced slowness. She caught my eye, and for a second, I considered telling her everything. How I'd ended a seven-year friendship—because that's what Marcus and I had been, really—and how the silence that followed was both liberating and terrifying. How I didn't know who I was without his constant commentary on my life.

'Nothing's as sweet as it looks,' she said, dropping the orange into her basket and moving on.

I stood there for a long moment, surrounded by people making dinner choices, living lives that seemed so straightforward. Then I took the papaya out of my cart and placed it back on the pile. I bought the spinach anyway. Some habits were worth keeping, even if the reasons had changed.