The Usual

Some days you need to take the stairs.

That was June’s rule.

Or maybe it was Harold’s. After 50 years together, it was impossible to remember which habits belonged to whom. Along the way, everything became theirs.

She reached for the elevator button outside of her fourth-floor apartment and hesitated. Four flights weren’t impossible, no. But they were inconvenient enough to count as exercise when she was feeling particularly virtuous.

Some days you need to take the stairs, she reminded herself.

She considered this thought for exactly one second before pressing the elevator button.

“Tomorow,” she murmured with a smile.

The doors slid open with a familiar ding. June stepped carefully over the narrow gap, lifting her feet just slightly higher than necessary. Arthritis had been quietly negotiating with her knees for some years now, but she refused to give it the satisfaction of winning in public.

As the elevator descended, she mentally checked through her grocery list.

Potatoes.

Rosemary.

Butter.

Green beans (the good kind, not the limp ones).

And the pork chops.

She smiled. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was one of the meals that always made the apartment smell like home.

The elevator reached the lobby and as the doors opened, June patted her purse checking for her reusable grocery bags. Forgetting them meant listening to Harold tease her all the way through the checkout line.

But June! The Earth! How could you?

She smiled as she stepped outside, the humid summer air clinging to her like a hug. Miller’s Market was only four minutes away, just enough time for June to listen to her and Harold’s favorite song, “The Way you Look Tonight”.

Orange cones lined Maple Street, forcing June to detour around the block.

“About time,” she muttered.

Frank Sinatra had barely finished crooning the opening line before June could picture Harold, twenty-three years old and hopelessly overdressed, extending a hand to her across the dance floor.

Can I have this dance?

“Of course you can,” June whispered as she approached a red light.

The light turned green, and June eased her way through the intersection and into the parking lot of Miller’s Market. With a quick scan of the lot, June confirmed that her favorite spot was available and drove toward it. There was nothing special about the spot but after fifty-five years of shopping at Miller’s Market, June had quietly claimed it as her own.

Upon entering Miller’s Market, June was met with an icy rush of an air conditioned breeze.

You should have brought a jacket.

Herold’s words echoed through her head.

June was not particular about her cart selection, so when hers began to squeak she shrugged it off and carried on.

Miller’s Market had switched around their layout two times in June’s lifetime and yet she always started in produce. She liked the way that all of the colors greeted her.

After making her way through the vibrant red of the tomatoes and the deep green of peppers, June reached for two earthy russet potatoes. She stopped herself. One was noticeably larger than the other.

Harold always wants the larger one.

She smirked and slipped them both into a produce bag without a second thought.

The green beans took longer. Too many of them snapped at the ends when she bent them between her slightly calloused fingers. Harold insisted that the only way to judge the quality of a green bean is to listen to its snap. June had laughed the first time that he said it, but now she never buys green beans before snapping them.

“Still testing them?”

June looked over her shoulder to find Bill, the produce manager, arranging a display of peaches a few feet away.

“Old habits,” she chuckled.

“Best ones in the country if they snap,” Bill said.

“That’s what I’ve always heard.”

“Peaches are finally sweet,” Bill said.

June didn’t respond, lost in the act of snapping the beans.

“How are you holding up, June?”

“Just fine,” she responded, looking up with a sudden smile.

The two exchanged cordial good-byes and June made her way to the butcher.

“Afternoon, June,” the butcher called out as June approached the counter.

“Hello Frank, it’s lovely to see you.”

“Two center-pork chops?”

June nodded.

“You know me too well.”

Frank laughed as he wrapped two plump pork chops in butcher paper.

“Fifty years shopping here will do that.”

“Take care, Frank. And tell Louisa I said hi.”

June finished her shopping and pushed her cart toward the checkout. As she did, she passed the candy aisle. June wasn’t much of a sweets person, especially as she aged, but Harold couldn’t let a week pass without at least one bag of Peanut M&M’s. June’s hand hovered over the bag.

Have I bought a bag yet this week? She thought to herself.

June figured it didn’t matter either way, so she grabbed a bag and proceeded to checkout.

“Find everything you need?” the cashier asked.

“Almost.” June responded, looking down at her cart.

“Forget anything?”

June glanced back toward the aisles.

“No, I suppose not”.

On the drive home, June sang along with Frank Sinatra and used her steering wheel as a drum. With each line that she sang, she imagined Harold. It was as if the song was written for their love.

When June returned to the apartment, she was greeted by its familiar stillness.

“I’m home,” she called out as she closed the door behind her.

She slipped her shoes off, hung her purse on the same brass hook it had occupied for years, and carried the groceries into the kitchen.

Before unpacking the bags, she turned on the radio that sat on the kitchen counter. Soft piano music filled the room.

June crossed the kitchen and clicked the oven to life. She placed one skillet over medium heat and a pot of water over high.

Potatoes first.

Always potatoes first.

She rinsed them beneath cold water, scrubbing away the last traces of dirt before wrapping each in foil. One large. One small.

“The bigger one is yours.”

She stood perfectly still, potato in one hand, aluminum crinkling under the fingers of the other.

She laughed to herself.

“Talking to empty rooms, again.”

The room never answered, but June always still asked.

She slid the foiled potatoes into the oven, the warmth hitting her face.

Butter hissed as it kissed the hot skillet on the stovetop. June added rosemary, the fragrance immediately rising and wrapping itself around her.

She closed her eyes.

Now that’s a meal.

Harold would say before either of them took a single bite.

She laid the pork chops in the pan and a familiar sizzle answered.

While the pork chops browned, she prepared the green beans one by one.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

The rhythm had become its own music over the years.

She glanced toward the hallway.

“Twenty minutes,” she called, “don’t let me forget the rolls.”

The apartment settled with a quiet creak.

She nodded to herself and smiled.

The table took two minutes to set.

Two plates.

Two forks.

Two knives.

Two glasses.

One pitcher of peach iced tea.

June unfolded cloth napkins, smoothing the wrinkles with the palm of her hand.

Harold insisted that paper towels worked better.

“You have no appreciation for presentation,” she’d tell him.

She then placed Harold’s favorite pepper shaker next to his plate.

The table looked perfect.

Outside, a car door slammed shut somewhere in the parking lot.

June looked instinctively toward the door.

Not yet.

“It smells good tonight,” she said to herself.

She poured the tea into each glass.

“Bill says that the peaches are finally sweet.”

She picked up the glass and before meeting the rim with her lips uttered a soft: “Cheers”.

She set the glass down and picked up her knife. As she cut open into her potato, the steam enveloped her face.

“They’re finally filling the pothole on Maple Street”.

She took a bite of the potato.

“Oh, I bought you a bag of M&M’s. They’re in the pantry.”

The statement lingered in the silence.

June looked up.

Harold’s dinner remained untouched under the curling steam.

June waited. No longer for footsteps, for she knew those would never come.

Harold’s chair had been empty for forty-three days now.

Forty-three mornings of reaching across the bed before remembering.

Forty-three days of staring across the table at nothing.

June stared at the second plate until the steam disappeared.

She set her meal aside. Then, with slow practiced movements, she pushed her chair out, stood up, and picked up the untouched plate across the table.

As June walked toward the refrigerator, a single tear began to pool in the corner of her eye like a raindrop on the tip of a leaf.

Inside the refrigerator sat three neatly wrapped containers.

Pork chops.

Meatloaf.

Chicken pot pie.

Each one covered in plastic wrap.

Each one labeled in careful handwriting: Harold.

June rested the fresh plate on the counter next to the refrigerator. Her hand hovered over the plastic wrap that she had left out for the past fourty-three days.

For a moment, she stood still. Her face rested into a contemplative gaze.

Finally, she picked up the plate and resoundingly walked toward the garbage can in the corner of the kitchen. She triggered the pedal opening and scraped the pork chop into the trash.

Then the green beans.

Then the potatoes.

The sound of porcelain meeting the metal sink echoed softly through the kitchen.

One plate remained mainly untouched on the table.

June then lifted the garbage bag out of the can, tying its ends into a tight knot. She slipped her shoes on and entered the hallway.

The elevator arrived with a familiar ding.

June looked at the open doors.

They waited.

So did she.

Some days you need to take the stairs.

June let the doors slide close and then, one careful step at a time, she began her climb.