Don’t Forget the Ice
Amy E. Hale
The doors slide open to the entrance of the grocery store. As soon as I walk in, I realize I
left my grocery list at home. The image of it still stuck to the refrigerator by a New Orleans
magnet that I bought from a souvenir shop on Bourbon St. I grab a shopping cart and try to
recollect everything I wrote down on my list. The voice inside my head tells me, “Don’t forget a
bag of ice. Whatever you do, don’t forget a bag of ice. This was on the list.” I remind myself to
pick up the ice at checkout, right before I leave. I must not forget. I start with the nearest aisle
and convince myself that I will come across all the items as I go along.
I’m doing a pretty good job as one item after another falls into the cart. As I turn the
corner ready to enter the next aisle, I see Kim. It’s the wine aisle. She is standing there looking at
the label on one of the bottles. I begin to turn around and look for a detour. “Andrew?” she asks.
I have been spotted. I turn and look at her with a smile. “Hey, how’ve you been, Kim?” I ask,
already knowing everything about her by all of her posts on Facebook. I knew it was only a
matter of time until I would run into her again. According to Facebook, she moved into the
neighborhood a couple of months ago. I’m not surprised now, seeing her at the grocery store.
“Everything has been great. I live close by, now,” she says, enthusiastically.
“Yes, I know. Sorry I couldn’t make it to your little party, I was busy working on some
things,” I lie to her.
“That’s okay, wish you could’ve been there.”
“Yeah, me too,” I state, lie number two.
“You could’ve met, Charles, the guy I’m dating,” she says proudly. “He’s from
England.”
“Oh yeah, I think I saw a picture of him on your page. He looks like a nice guy,” I tell
her, thinking that most guys from England are nice guys.
I begin to think to myself that he’s a real gentleman. Aren’t men from England suppose to be
gentlemen? She smiles and continues to talk about Charles and explains she is cooking dinner for
him tonight. The details carry on for some time, about how they met at a party, his job with an oil
company and the places they plan to travel to on vacation. As she finishes describing her recent
success, she looks into my shopping cart.
“So, what have you been up to?” she asks, looking at the items in my cart which consists
of jalapeno flavored chips, beer and Pop-Tarts.
“Oh, nothing new,” I tell her.
“Are you working?”
“Yes…well, it’s part time at one of the paint stores.”
“Oh, well…that’s good.”
“Yeah, it’s not too bad and it does keep me busy.”
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