Checking Out

On my bi-weekly excursion to the local discount grocery wharehouse I overheard the following exchange while sacking my own food:

Her: So then she said to him, "YOU can cook?!"
Him: Wow.
Her: Yeah, like, hello. Squirrel, he can cook squirrel. That didn't matter, just that he can cook.

I couldn't help but look up from my bagging. They were a new couple both in their late forties or early fifties. They handn't worked out the little couple things like who pays for the groceries, who bags, who pushes the cart, who carries the sacks to the car. They were both wearing blue jeans and they smiled at each other a whole lot.

I realized they were at that place in a young romance when ridiculous stories about your lover's family are still fun because, well, it isn't YOUR family, yet. It is incredibly liberating, actually, to see your squirrel-cooking uncle through the stranger in your bedroom's smile.

As I left the store behind them they argued over the sack and finally settled on carrying it together, each grabbing a side, the way two people will walk with their child and swing him forwards off his feet.