Adam has an event in Santa Fe and I have obligations here, so it's a split-up Sunday and I was left to do the shopping by myself.

I went through the aisles, pushing the small cart the store very thoughtfully instituted a couple of years ago. It holds just the same volume as a Miata trunk, just enough for two people to survive a week. It was just after nine on Sunday morning, about the same time we always go.

Ah, there's the difference. "We."

Because this morning, I'm flying solo, not engrossed in a list and long running private jokes, and suddenly I realize it is the second round of singles shopping, for when the Saturday night excursions didn't pan out and there's still twenty-four long hours before Monday.

First there's the guy in the faded red t-shirt and cargo shorts who kind of follows the same path around produce and stares at the sweet onions for a little longer than sweet onions deserve. Then there's the Verticle Woman, by which I mean "done up," all the way up. Full makeup, not a hair out of place, strappy sandals that push her up an extra four inches, and that push-up bra? Pushes that cleavage right up to the verge of out. I see her in the deli, frowning at cheese, and then again in the frozen food, frowning at Cool Whip.

I entertained the idea of trying to get Red T-shirt and the Verticle Woman in the same aisle, but meh. She's wearing Chanel No. 5. He's wearing the entire Men's Fragrance counter. It would never work.