Tonight was one of those nights when you go to the grocery store fifteen minutes before close.  You snatch things off the shelves haphazardly, feeling a little lost without your usual list.  You feel your chest swell with pride when you pick out something that’s on sale, and you stand, cushy tennis shoes on unforgiving tile, for a few moments to deliberate over something that’s not.

Outside, the air has cooled significantly, and the sudden darkness drives you to the sidewalk, where you trot with a gallon of milk in one hand and a bag of palm-stripping weight in the other.  Every so often you have to stop and switch hands, sighing as the numbing gallon settles against your new rope burn.

Back at home, you unpack quietly for a few minutes.  That is, until you pull the large container of oatmeal out of the bag, and open the cupboard to discover an identical, nearly-full container within.  You bought oatmeal last week.


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