Next

“There’s nothing to eat!” my husband shouts, his words muffled by the fridge door as it nearly swallows him.

It’s a phrase I hear at least three times a week—at this point, just an incessant noise.

He reappears in one piece and slams the fridge door, standing there dumbfounded, a beer gripped in his large, paint-stained hand, his smock streaked with pigment and reeking of turpentine. I shake my head. “Why did I marry an artist?” I roll my eyes, knowing there is plenty of food.

I can hear him grumbling as I stomp into the kitchen to see for myself. The refrigerator fan kicks on—loud and dramatic—and I can hear it say, “I’m 20 years old, I’m tired, please replace me already,” in the voice of an old man on his deathbed. Yes, it’s a giant square of metal, but I imagine it has a consciousness, like the stuffed animals I could never give away.

Not wanting it to work any harder than it has to, I open the door fast and do a quick scan.

Bottom shelf: red and green apples, bright yellow lemons, mini oranges, all divided into clear containers—a clear sign of my OCD.

Middle shelf: half a head of iceberg lettuce that sits beside an open can of beans from the bean-and-cheese burrito I made myself last night.

Drawer: a pack of sliced sharp cheddar, half-covered by a bag of flour tortillas.

Top shelf: two lonely eggs.

And endless condiments.

I count three different meals in my head, but my husband seems to only be creative on paper. Enigmatic like that. I used to joke that he must have been a king in his past life, and part of his karma is coming back as a peasant.

Not wanting to float in his sea of complaints, I agree to go to the grocery store. Sometimes the grocery store feels like a mini vacation—an excuse to get away from the kids and responsibilities. Other days it feels daunting and overwhelming, and today is one of those days. It’s the last place I want to go, but I can’t bear to hear my insatiable husband complain for one more second.

He hands me a grocery list as I stand impatiently in front of the wide-open door, my way of telling him to hurry up. His lists always annoy me—writing like a child, not knowing if he’s asking for peas or pears. Questionable requests like gelatin or edible gold leaf. Fifteen years later and still nothing about him makes sense.

One word I do make out is ham, written larger than the other items, all caps—his way of telling me it’s important.

I can feel my body getting hot. “Don’t you know ham is disgusting—full of parasites—and on top of that, it takes forever to slice,” I mutter. I catch myself talking out loud again. Embarrassed, I let out a low, drawn-out growl as I climb into the car.

Between the sushi bar and hot pizzas, I see there are only two people in line at the deli. I walk briskly to be the third, slightly out of breath—another reminder I need to get back to exercising. Even with only two people ahead of me, I can tell it’s going to take forever. It reminds me of the time I got stuck behind a woman at an ice cream shop who radiated indecision. I watched her silently debate with herself, then try six different flavors before finally settling on vanilla.

I glance at the two people in front of me.

First: a tall, thin, average-looking man in his late sixties. Black-rimmed glasses hug his thin, bony face. His skin is pale like he hasn’t seen the sun in years. He wears faded blue dress pants and a cream-colored button-down dress shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Pens stick out from his breast pocket—old school. There’s a sadness to him.

Behind him is the complete opposite. A body like a pear. A short, rather large woman who is only large from the waist down. Short, stubby legs. Feet like bricks, sausage-like toes squished into black heels that should’ve been replaced years ago. Brown hair pulled into a tight bun to mask the grays. It’s obvious they both came from work. She isn’t fooling anyone with her opaque pantyhose from the ’90s. I’m onto her.

I have this gift where I can look at someone and get a glimpse of their life in a flash. From my predictions, they’re both unhappily married—or widowed. They’ve been at the same 9–5 job for twenty years, just doing what they’re told, and they think when you die, that’s the end. Living life like two hamsters on a wheel.

He sits in a cubicle as a data-entry clerk. On his lunch break, he scarfs down a turkey-and-cheese sandwich that he carefully makes at home, mayo dripping on his cheap polyester pants and tie while under the hypnosis of his computer screen. Unaware of it—and of life. He plays it safe with his turkey sandwich. Day in, day out.

After work, he gets into his 1995 Toyota Corolla that has collected plenty of scratches and dents through the years. He moved into a studio apartment two years ago after his wife died. He is quiet and keeps to himself. He reads a lot, mostly mystery. He’s smart but never found his true calling, which subconsciously haunts him to this day. For dinner, he enjoys a can of tomato soup with sardines on the side, eaten silently off a wooden tray while sitting comfortably on his old leather couch. He goes to bed with the sun and rises with the sun.

She is an accountant, the real by-the-book type. A stickler. Giving half your money to the government is just the way it is. Her thoughts stop there.

For lunch, she pops in a microwave meal, purely for convenience. Lean Cuisine five-cheese rigatoni on Monday, a pot pie from Marie Callender’s on Tuesday. A diet soda to wash it all down—her way of justifying the calories. As she works on other people’s taxes, she zones out, imagining herself on a cruise somewhere tropical, sipping pink-and-blue drinks while lounging in the pool. Thoughts like that get her through the day.

Once home, she immediately kicks her heels off, plops down on her orange velvet couch that belonged to her mother, and massages her feet. She doesn’t have to worry about dinner because she stops for fast food on the way home. Married for 47 years, yet living separate lives. Her kids have moved away. Her only real companion is a calico cat named Pepper. She falls asleep watching TV, gets up the next day, and does it all over again.

I can’t help myself. My mind has a life of its own sometimes. I find comfort in trying to understand other human beings—and that brief connection leaves me quietly humbled. I smile at the old man as he walks away slowly with his half-pound of turkey grasped in his thin, aged hands.

I snap out of my daze. I’m now second in line and getting impatient. I stare at the meat-cutter machine going forward and backward, forward and backward. My body sways with the movement. I’m stuck in my own worst nightmare. I start picking at my fingers, I become aware and stop. I’m sixty seconds from walking away, two middle fingers up.

To keep busy, I don’t stare at my phone. Instead, I look around, observing other faces, postures, and mannerisms, a game I play when I’m bored. I’m just starting to rip someone apart when I hear: “NEXT.”

“Hey, can I have a half-pound of Black Forest ham?” I say with a huge smile, pretending to be patient and friendly.

The teenage boy with crooked glasses and acne dusting his temples gives me a nod and walks to the back. He’s maybe seventeen, with opinions that matter to no one. His parents make him get this job. He’s embarrassed and resents them. They’re just happy he isn’t playing video games all day anymore.

I see him walking toward me. Finally, I mutter under my breath, my finger now bleeding.

He looks at me with a blank face and says, “We’re all out.”

FUCK.