By Katie Choi ’07
I was in the bread aisle when I realized I no longer loved my husband. Pushing my cart past the shelves neatly lined with sourdough, challah, rye. Get the kind with the seeds, he said. He always wanted the kind with the seeds. Virtuous. Full of nutrients that got stuck in his teeth as he chewed too loudly and groused about his day.
I craved grilled cheese on white bread. The enveloping stillness of melted American and a tender crumb.
It wasn’t always this way with me. I once craved the softness of his mouth, the shape it took around my name. I reached for him in the night like a scuba diver searching with the beam of a flashlight. Oh, there you are. And there I was, too.
Years passed as I paced those aisles. Bashful kisses, a white dress, a house in the good part of town. A flash of lightning turned into a season of hailstorms, and then, finally, silence like a heavy blanket.
Paper or plastic? the cashier asked.
I walked out, a loaf of seeded rye under my arm.