She stood behind me in the grocery store. Some guy in front of me had a problem and the cashier had to turn on the blinking light, bringing the line to a halt.
“You smell good.” At first I didn’t think she was talking to me. No woman has given me a compliment like that since college.
“Thanks,” I stuttered.
“Let me guess…Marlowe Number 102?”
I had no idea what she meant so I just shrugged.
The cashier gave me a she’s-way-too-young-for-you look.
When I returned home, my wife, still in the sweat pants and t-shirt she wore to bed last night, inventoried the bags.
“Not these, George, damn it.” She slammed the cookies on the counter. “Pecan, not hazlenut.” I didn’t hear the rest, something about it was a simple task and I couldn’t get it right.
I headed back out the door.
“Where are you going?” she inquired while dumping her cigarette butt in a coffee cup by the sink.
“I forgot soap.” The last words I ever said to her.
