Guilty Pleasure

Sometimes going to the grocery store is just that. Sometimes it’s more.

My sister is in town for a rare visit, and we’ve spent the afternoon combing through the racks at the Salvation Army for outfits our mom can wear, especially nighties which seem to keep disappearing at her long-term care facility.

Now famished, we’ve cooked up a nice meal plan and stop off at the Marsh Supermarket to pick up the missing ingredients. Our Marsh compares favorably with the nicer stores in Cleveland, my sister observes, and we continue chatting amiably as we approach the checkout counter and unload our basket onto the conveyor belt.

I glance up…and stand transfixed! A new guy. Curly light brown hair, blue eyes, tall and athletic, huge hands reaching from graceful arms extending from solid shoulders, lifting the grocery items and sliding them skillfully across the scanner…beep…beep…beep. My God he’s gorgeous! Not so much handsome as magnetic. Built for action. He could be a basketball forward at the high school, an Olympic swimmer, a Hellenic soldier at Sparta in leather armaments, a…

Oh, yes, grab my debit card and swipe it, eyes fixed on the nameplate, averting my gaze. A last lingering look as I collect my bags and say thank you.

Outside on the pavement, my sister and I both exhale. “Eli,” she says. Yup, I nod in perfect understanding, and we head for home and margaritas.