No basket. I’m paststable. Past smart.
Pastusing-my-brainbullshit.
I grab two bags of dark chocolate cherries.
A few bars.
The most expensive bottle of pinot they’ve got.
Heating pad.
Triple-stacked Advil.
Wipes.
I stop in front of the candles,
staring at them, arms full.
I don’t even want the fucking candle anymore.
It’s too soft for all the shit I went through to get here.
I start to walk away, then stop,
look left then right,
and yank one off the shelf.
Then—
my periody-sense picks up his scent.
Cedar, soft amber, heat.
A smell making me want to bury my face into his neck.
The kind that lingers on sheets,
making me dumb and horny for hours.
Andrew.
My body moves before my brain does.
Because God forbid I pause and think first.
My feet are leading the way,
following the scent,
sniffing the air like a Sanderson sister,
arms juggling all the things,
chocolate bar clamped between my teeth.
I pass the cold meds, the foot care,
