She frowns down at the box of instant mashed potatoes in her hands because she doesn't know what else to do. Usually the corner of her mouth would quirk upward because she would remember the one winter it didn't snow for Christmas and her father let her sprinkle mashed potato flakes around the yard... but today she can only frown because she doesn't really remember that memory as much as she remembers telling him about it.
She puts the box back on the shelf and pushes her cart forward. She doesn't really remember anymore how this grocery store is set up, because she's spent the last two years shopping with him in East Stroudsburg where nobody knew their names and they could be daring in public and hold hands while they tried to decide what breakfast cereal was the healthiest. They couldn't buy frozen foods or ice cream because of the drive, but she always thought it was worth it, and she likes fresh food better, anyway.
It's instinct when she pushes her cart towards the shaving creams and her heart jumps in her throat. She remembers the feel of the cool metal of the can when she put it in her medicine cabinet and the sound when he took the cap off in her tiny bathroom - like a tiny gunshot ricocheting against the clean tiles - and she pushes the cart out of the aisle so fast her purse almost falls to the floor.
She stops before turning into aisle six because she doesn't want to be one of those women who can't handle a break-up. She doesn't want to be like Kelly, crying under her desk in her pajamas and not being strong. She was raised to be a strong woman and Grandmother would be so disappointed because when Grandpa died, she went to the grocery store alone everyday and went to his grave every Sunday until she wound up next to him in the end. It was silly to feel this way, she thought, because he wasn't dead, she wasn't dead... although Sprinkles was dead, so that made it a little complicated.
She turns the cart around and goes back to the shaving creams even though the grocery list printed on the floral memo pad paper is trembling in her fist. She picks up one of the cans and it feels different, more like plastic, and she pulls off the cap and the sound is different, more like someone smacking their lips. She puts it back on the shelf and tries not to think about the smell or how smooth his cheek was against hers in the morning before work.
She just wants to think about groceries and just wants to buy breakfast cereal without her hand feeling empty and pointless at her side.
She still feels Sprinkles' spirit around sometimes (which she'll never admit to anyone, not even to Pam on one of those rare days she decides to let her inside her head and heart for a little bit).
She wishes it was enough to be able to forgive him, but for now she'll go grocery shopping alone and she will try not to get weak in the knees when she passes aisle five.
