So I skip breakfast and head to the supermarket down the street to make Richard’s favorite cookies.
Am I aware I need to have a conversation—correction: many conversations—with my husband instead of plastering everything behind sweets? Yes. Am I mentally equipped? Absolutely not. Right now, just making it past the cart section feels like a major life achievement.
I’m elbow-deep in the baking aisle, hunting for gluten-free flour, when I hear familiar humming.
Startled, I turn and peek out to see Ben casually browsing the store, white cap backward, black everything else.
His sweats hang low, with that knot in front—the one you tug to make them surrender to gravity, and whatever’s under to my hands.
I shake my head. Probably shouldn’t think that. Definitely shouldn’t.
He reaches for the milk on the top shelf, hoodie riding up to reveal the tight, flat plane of his lower stomach and the dangerous V that cuts straight to where my mouth should be.
Damn it.I think I need an aisle with holy water.
As if he’s aware of his stalker, he glances my way, and I duck behind a corner.
I’m in sweats, two dark circles carved under my eyes as a gift from my nightmares, and my hair’s in that purgatory between "undone chic" and "when did you last wash it" (Answer: I don’t remember.)
Meanwhile, Ben moves through the store, grabbing ingredients: Eggs. Vanilla pods. Strawberries. Ricotta.
He's making cannoli? It's his specialty.
Except he doesn't eat them, which means he's making them to impress someone.
I doubt they're for Lisa. She seems to survive on air with a garnish of breeze. So who?
Someone he was texting the other day? Someone he smiles for now?
I'm so pathetic.
I trail after him at a safe distance, like he's a human charging station for my depleted batteries, something in the air making me want to sneeze, which would definitely give me away.
We pass the fruit, the bakery, and the frozen section before he disappears around the corner, and I peek just as he grabs red food coloring.
Red velvet cannoli? My favorite?! I swear that ass is doing that just to spite me in his head.
I glare, though he can't see me, and turn around, swiping the ingredients into my cart as I make a beeline.
Back home, I shower, wash my hair because you apparently never know when you'll meet your nemesis, and manage to bake pretty good cookies.
Then I change into a black dress with a lace hem—short,tight. Bought it the other day when I decided I'd take full custody of my wardrobe and it's perfect to show life that you can throw a punch back.
Hair's in a French twist, pinned with a gold brooch, and the heels—red Louboutins with open toes. The sexiest shoes on the planet.
The funny part is that I'm just going to sign some bank papers.
But you don't always dress for where you're going—you dress for where you wish you were—and right now, I need something to lift me out of this mood.
?
The day turns out better than expected.
I take a cable-car ride after ages, swaying above laundry lines and motel signs that have hung there since the ’90s.
Then I wander down a street that smells of jasmine and duck into a no-name bookstore with no one around.
Pick up some bad erotica, read a full chapter standing by the window, and find myself liking it because it reminds me that even now, in this half-broken version of my life, I still burn for life.
