it with dignity. Then I chose the chicken while she inspected tomatoes. Our dinner began becoming something neither of us had planned alone.
At the pasta aisle, she slowed.
I followed her glance upward.
The heavy cartons were gone from the top shelf.
“Improved architecture,” I said.
“Much better.”
We stood where the box had fallen. There was no evidence of it now, no mark announcing that an ordinary afternoon had become important to two people. Someone rolled a cart past us and reached for spaghetti.
Sabrina squeezed my hand.
