Love, Lose, And Repeat

Cereal Aisle

        I always get the shopping cart with the bum wheel that squeaks when I take my turn down the juice aisle. I toss in the 100% apple juice, the one I've been drinking for five years, and pick up a new container of Lemon Raspberry Juice Blast—50% corn syrup but 100% thirst quenching. I hesitate putting it in the cart among the usual chicken breasts and bundle of bananas and instead, put it back on the shelf with its label facing out for someone else to try.

        I twist my cart into aisle nine where I recognize the man in a worn gray shirt and khaki knee-high shorts. He is poking around the cereals. I have a history with those khakis: ten dollars at a Black Friday sale—ten percent off with a coupon because of the ink stain just above the pocket. I guess he could throw away a relationship but he couldn’t throw away the ten dollar pair of shorts I bought him on a whim.

        I turn my attention to the toaster pastries, hoping he would finish his business in my aisle and go buy some free range white eggs or something. But how long can I stare at the knock-off Pop tarts and pretend they are interesting? I guess I just cant make up my mind between cinnamon brown sugar or frosted strawberry, because I am still just standing here. I roll my eyes and tell myself to get a grip. I take a handle of my cart; its wheels squeal and vibrate on the brown tiled floor.
I wouldn’t see Ray Mueller on a day where I was wearing a full face of make-up and a designer dress--that's not how it works. I see him the day I'm wearing my stained college sweatshirt, ripped on the shoulder, and a pair of sweatpants sagging in the crotch, and ripped at the knee.

        He turns around holding a box of Frosty Puffs in one hand and Whole Grin Granola in the other. I flash back to early morning breakfasts: a fresh bowl of Frost Puffs and us. Every morning life was Frosty Puffs and a glass of 100% apple juice.
        “Cathy?” He hesitates for a moment, glancing up from the nutrition facts, “I thought that was you.”
        “Ray?” I turn towards him like I'm in shock, like i am a rabbit stocked by prey. He leans in for a half hug where only our shoulders and necks touch before I quickly pulled myself away, “Ray Mueller? Look what the cat dragged in.” My face lights up with the lie of surprise.
I shake my chestnut brown hair to the side and run a hand through the knotted mess. I try to contain it because today I overlooked my hairbrush and denied my deodorant and he is just starring at me and I am remember all the times he used to tell me to: Run a comb through that thing.
        “Buying cereal?” I ask.  I point to the box of Frost Puffs in his hand and smiled. “I have to say, I never thought I would see you in a grocery store.” The only food I ever saw him buy was the day old candy out of a vending machine.
        I reach behind him and pulled out a box of Frost Puffs for myself, laying them in the front of the cart beside my oversized brown leather bag. He saw it and it was like he saw me wearing his old promise ring.
    “I shop here sometimes.” He casually looks down at my sweatshirt, “Good old SMU.

        I shrug and hold onto my stained smile, “Best times of my life.”

        "You still talk to Tamara and George?"

        I haven't seen them in over a year.

        “Just the other day."

        “Good to hear.” He claps his hands together and gives a side stare, looking for someone off down another aisle. "I see your—hair got longer.” He says.

        “I actually just had it cut.” I fiddle with the ends of frizzy hair.

        “Right. Yeah, it looks a lot lighter.”

        “It’s darker.”

      He bites down on his bottom lip and I watch the rippling of his muscles. He flexes his shoulders. I gather he still spent his nights in the gym with a gallon of Muscle Milk and his trainer Dana who spends--too much time on his gluts. He looks away and tosses the box of granola into his cart. “You—” I feel a tightening in my throat, “You eat granola now?” I say each syllable of it slow and hope he hears my disgust.

        “There is more fiber—” He points to the box “in—granola.”

        “Is there?” I scratched the back of my head. “I never noticed.”

        He lets out a loud chuckle like he is watching Robin Williams in his early days of stand-up, “It’s because you don’t try anything new.”

        “Ok?" I bite my comment back but it quickly slips out, "So—I should take a lesson from you then Mr. Perfect and try new girls out every night instead then.” my arms freeze to my sides and I stare at him waiting for him to speak.

        “Believe what you want.” He says shaking his head and looking up into the fluorescent lighting. He pokes his tongue into his cheek, his version of a cat hissing at the family dog. I see a small slant scar on the inside of his palm by his heart line.

        “You still have that scar?”

        His eyes perk up, “What? This one?” He stretches out his palm and glances at it.

        I lost my glasses at the Simon and Garfunkel tribute concert on our second date. Ray ran his hand under the seats of the row in front of us until he returned the glasses to me covered in blood, granted they were not my glasses--they were the wrong prescription--but I still wore them until the end of the night so he didn’t think it was a waste.

        I let out a short sigh, "Why did you stop eating our cereal?"

        He wrinkles up his brows and crossed his arms, "granola—has more fiber."

        "So?"

        "It's better for me, Cath."

        "Right" I drop my head to the ground looking at the reflection of my face in the floor.

        Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman, as thin as a pole, walk up to Ray with her blond hair half-braided and laid in a frizzy mess around her head.

        “Are you about ready, Ray-Ray?” She asks in a whimpering cry, like an infant. She begins rubbing the loose fabric over his back.

        “I've been waiting on you.” He wraps his arm around her tan shoulders and waves his other hand at me with rigid, impatient fingers, “Tell Roger I say hi.”

        “He asks about you.” I say itching a dry patch of my dandruff scalp.

        “Does he?” He retracts his arm from around the blonde.

        “—He’s a cat, Ray.”

        We share a small lighthearted smile. Ray sees the look of annoyance from the blonde who gives him two wide eyes and a quick (supposed to be subtle) nod.

        “Have fun” --his eyes touch mine and quickly fade back into the other woman and her glare--“with your Frosty Puffs, Cathy”

        He squeezes her shoulder with his scarred hand, “Checkout time?” She pushes onto the balls of her feet and rubs her nose against his.

        I open my mouth to mutter a goodbye but when I look up I see them get into line at register five. Not once did he turn back to catch a glance of me. Before they even his their first purchase to the conveyer belt she is asked about me--who I am, how he knows me.

        I pick up the box of Frost Puffs from my cart and weigh it next to a box of granola, eye level with me. I let a smile fall onto my face as I lay its down next to the apple juice. My steps were light as I turned the corner. My squeaky cart’s whining and whistling began to chime like music — he was right. Granola does have more fiber.