Expiration Date

It's July. I'm remembering the feel of winter. I was sweating fifteen minutes ago and now I am shivering. The chill of the freezer section is to blame. I’m surveying the frozen dinners (which the store signage refers to as Frozen Entrées) as quickly as possible. The doors still fog with condensation. Most of the boxes I notice are red or orange, suggesting heat. Why does everything have so much sodium in it? Do salty foods always taste better? Nothing on sale is appealing.

“Want a pizza?” he asks. The question is rhetorical. Pizzas are a staple of ours, a necessary evil. We eat them in a pinch or when he insists on "cooking" for us. They're barely palatable to me—something off about dough that's been baked and frozen and re-baked. I tolerate it because he’s so pleased with himself afterward. It lets him feel nurturing. He considers the pizzas his fair share. It’s sweet, if a bit lackluster.

“Not pepperoni.” I reply. He grabs sausage, which is no better.

It's Thursday. We couldn't make it to the weekend. Mustard, two heels of bread, a packet of Pop-Tarts, and Malt-O-Meal Frosted Flakes (more dust than flakes at this point) are practically all we have left. There’s a bag of mixed vegetables in the back of the fridge that's way too icy to consider consuming, but I can’t bring myself to pitch it. A trip to the grocery store was overdue. I can't eat Subway again.

In the refrigerated section, I grab a bottle of OJ with a matte orange finish. We’ve settled on Some Pulp, although it pleases neither of us. Such is the nature of compromise. That there are brands of milk has never made sense to me. I get that specific companies bottle and sell it, but could milk ever inspire brand loyalty? I pick up a gallon of 1/2 % from the back in the hopes of a longer shelf-life.

Those companies know when milk sours within a day or two. All those different cows in different parts of the country, but their milk expires at the same rate. Are we like milk I wonder? All the relationships I’ve been in before ours never really got off the ground. Is there a clear point in any long-term thing where you know it's gone bad? What's our sniff test?

“Do we need eggs or anything?” he asks.

“Yeah, you can get a carton.” I cook occasionally. Zack's predisposed to pickiness, but he has the decency to grin his way through curry or a meal with Kalamata olives featuring prominently. A new jar of the latter will be coming home with us.

We're moving on to the bakery section. A yeasty sweet smell hangs in the air. No one is on duty behind the counter. Baking is an a.m. trade. Maybe the smell is ambient, dry-roasted into the floor tile. There's a lot of blonde wood around. It complements the bread's hue. An architect selected the wood finish years ago. We forget or overlook that this place, too, was designed for selling.

The ‘Fresh’ stickers are hot pink and have sunburst edges. They are stuck on everything in sight. Are they ever removed? Is freshness enduring up until the moment they're purchased? I flip a loaf over out of tepid curiosity and run my finger down the nutritional info. Out of principle, I say no to corn syrup where possible.

He chucks a package of sugar cookies into the cart. This is why we don't have real food around. They’re slathered with sky blue frosting and have black sprinkles. I move the cookies off my bag of spinach.

A large woman, who must sense my presence, will not make room for me in front of the discount rack. Apparently it's hers. While waiting, I stare at her thighs. They seem lunar, a pocked surface wrapped in heather gray sweatpants. Some people's comfort makes me uncomfortable. I want to grab the loose end of a thread hanging by the pocket’s seam but don’t dare.

Zack's gone. I'll find him studying in the liquor aisle. He's at his contemplative finest there. A good deal validates the purchase for him. He’ll pace and crunch the numbers on his phone, determined to find the exact optimal point at which the vectors of cent per ounce, taste, and alcohol content meet. The laminated sign that reads ‘Deli’ in the distance is rocking psychotically from the ceiling in the distance. It always rocks because the A/C is always on. It’d be ominous if it weren’t so flimsy.

I've barely been up for thirteen hours, but I feel sluggish. It’s not the length of the day. It’s the density that gets you. Today has been dense, packed full of events I’d rather not relive but will because there’s tomorrow. Everyday at work is a perverse semi-instant replay of the day before. Then it’s the weekend. That’ll be okay. Zack plays pick-up softball on Saturdays in the summer. I'll stay home and read in my pajamas.

I hear the lady shuffle away on her foamy toe-thongs. It'll take her at least ten minutes to check out. Her cart needs a third axle. Why would anyone need a dozen cans of Manwich? I opt for two loaves of the Cracked Wheat because they're 13¢ less than the Oat Flour, which makes me feel okay about them being $1.40 more than Wonder. We aren't rational with money. I quibble over dimes because I can but don't fret about the cable bill.

I roll past the pharmacy counter alone. A man wearing a white jacket sneezes into the crook of his arm. He wears frameless glasses and one of those crisp white mustaches. He's either very tall or the floor behind the counter is raised. His name is Edward or Edwin, but not Ed. I tried being friendly with him once, but he wasn’t game.

The cart squeaks and pulls starboard. I embrace the matronly image and push it with my forearms sometimes, hunched over. I waggle my butt a bit and snicker to myself.

The most dominant color around is taupe. It’s neutral. Taupe wants to be ignored for the sake of the goods around it. Most everyone looks haggard and is sporting deep wrinkles from the day’s wear. Some people have had enough time to go home after work to dress down to go out. The dress code seems to be blue jeans/sweatpants on the bottom half and a T-shirt/tank up top (Zack included). I’m the only one who still looks remotely fashionable by the seven o’clock hour.

Zack's walking back towards me slanted at the waist and lugging a box. His face is delicate. The bridge of his nose is thin and his eyes are sunken a bit. That face brightens as he exclaims “Two bucks off!” from ten feet away. He puts it on the bottom shelf-type thing of the cart. With the beer stowed, he goes deadpan again. We aren’t affectionate in public. He looks at me like I’m a co-worker, which is better than a random bus passenger. There’s familiarity, but that’s about it.

Our cart is more resistant than earlier but has stopped squeaking. We buy beer we don't need, yet I can't buy brand-name cereal without an eye-roll. "I'm the picky one," he'd say. For the nth time today, I wonder why I am still with him. It sounds as dramatic as it is. What would he do without me? Why rock the boat? It’s not so bad and it could be a lot worse. He listens and I don’t worry about him being sleeping around. We’re both committed to this like a captain to his ship. It's a game of chicken in super slow-motion.

After tracing the perimeter of the store, we zig-zag through the interior. Even our grocery runs have a pattern to it. He's drawn, toddler-like, by vibrant displays. The Hostess endcap lures him with lemon yellow and royal blue. He has a soft spot for Oatmeal Cream Pies. All I say is “Zack” and he shoots me daggers. I don't need to elaborate because we've been over this umpteen times. I keep him on task; he tries my patience. We're doing good to keep it under an hour. Once I lost him for honestly fifteen minutes. Cell phone signals can’t make it through the corrugated steel. It took all I had not to make an inquiry on the PA. When asked later, he said he was looking for me. When asked why he needed to leave my side to go looking for me, he didn’t respond. He never concedes defeat.

Three or four months ago, he stopped excusing himself after burping.

We cruise past the Pet Supplies section and head towards Dry Goods. Outside it is in between day and night, but in here it is simply On. Whatever can glow, shine, or flash, does. Every surface is clean, except for the restrooms (which are mostly for the staff I gather). These are not easily accessible for a reason. They don’t want to encourage customers. There’s a printout taped on the mirror that reads “Employees must wash their hands.” with a superscripted ‘not’ scribbled in blue ink between 'must' and 'wash'. The mirror has been keyed repeatedly and on one of the stalls is either a gang symbol or a monogram. The overhead lights usually flicker like they do in zombie movies. Now I hold it till we get back to the apartment.

A little boy knocks a box over and gazes down at it petrified. His mother tells him to pick it up, which he does and then freezes. He just stands there, holding it, awaiting further instruction. His shoes have Velcro straps. The mom could use conditioner.

Zoo animals are the most common mascots for the kinds of cereal we get. Their coloration tends to be unnatural. Why are the flakes segregated? Bran is far from frosted. I scan for red tags. I fret over price per ounce. The Family Size Mini-Spooners are a steal. I add a bag to our haul.

Zack’s adding a box of Wild! Berry Pop-Tarts that are made of 10% real fruit, the rest being wildly artificial.  What can I do? They’re his breakfast. If you take the trouble to toast them, they taste much better. Brush your teeth afterwards, though.

At this point in the zig-zag, we pointed toward the front of the building again. Over the registers, I can see the exit. A young man wearing cargo khakis pants and a denim short-sleeve polo is pushing a serpentine row of carts. There’s a strap attached to the first cart and he holds it tight like a rein with one hand while leaning into it with all his weight. A few of the wheels rattle wildly; others dangle limply like a dog’s sprained paw. I turn and move on.

I did want this—us—early on. That’s the problem with wanting though, the goal is usually half-baked. It’s just an idyllic picture with a happy caption. This was supposed to be something solid. I could say, whatever happened, at least I loved someone. Home would be a happy place. But it turns out we aren’t the thing kind of thing you’d point to on your deathbed when you turn down your Last Rites. Maybe that’s asking too much. Is there something wrong with me? Am I just fickle and nothing seems right after a year? I’ve criticized my friends for the same complaints. I think we’re both proving points here. Zack can keep a girl and I—

“What about barbecue sauce?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I think we're out or almost.” He grills, too. With visions of a meal in my head, I realize I forgot the sweet potato fries.

We’re flanked by canned goods and condiments. Off-brand beans make me sad in a way I can't fully describe. I am looking past silhouettes into a blurry wash of textures. It’s the deli counter. He's heading towards the aquarium with the lobsters. The closer we get, the more it reeks of fish. My palms feel slick with oil from the cart’s handle. I want to wash them before I touch anything of my own. I stop and use the back of my hand to rub my nose. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go get something real quick. Meet you at the checkout.”

“Okay.”

I do an about-face and head back to the freezers. Barbecue will be nice. It’s not so bad.