On My Own

Eight-thirty-six.  Twenty-two degrees.  I'm driving to the grocery store, alone, for the first time in months, possibly years.  I'm relishing the thought of moseying through the aisles, comparing prices and looking for foods that would usually fly below my radar.  Who has time, after all, to shop adventurously with children in tow? The lot is crowded when I pull in ten minutes later, full of Friday night movie-goers who have parked as close to the theater as possible, leaving the spaces near the grocery empty.  The only customers in the store are working moms, parents of newborns shopping tag-team style, and the lone bachelor with an oven-roasted chicken wafting it's delicious smell from the rolling basket he pulls behind him.  I smile at the near-emptiness of the store, pull out my shopping list and begin my journey.  It's not until an hour and a half later that I roll up to the checkout, having procured every last item on my list and remembered the two items requested immediatly before my departure.  I laugh at the debit machine when it asks, "Amount OK?"  No, I think, it's just a bit too high.  Could you bring it down for me?  Chuckling at my own humor, I press the green button and sail out of the store and into the chilly wind.  It's ten-thirty, and the lot is mostly empty, now.  A few teenagers laugh raucously outside the still-open pizzaria, but the movie crowd has thinned, leaving my car virtually alone.  I breathe the cold air into my lungs and hold it there.  I won't have this experience again for a very long while.