There were separate sections for gluten-free, vegan, international, organic this, organic that. Nuts and seeds by the pound. As she made her way toward the dairy section, she was stunned by the selection of milk. At her neighborhood store they had skim, fat-free, whole, and one brand of soy milk. But here there were several brands of oatmeal, coconut, raw, goat, almond, cashew, soy, lactose-free, fat-free. Too bad it isn’t free milk. She laughed to herself. Then she thought about almond milk and chuckled again to herself. I wonder how you milk an almond? It struck her this was the most relaxed she had been all day. She felt anonymous perusing the aisles of the megastore and imagining herself creating wonderful meals. But for whom? They rarely shared a real meal together. He’d come home and take his dinner—pizza, whatever—and plop in front of the television. Forget inviting friends over for dinner. They hardly socialized except for parties with his work buddies and their wives. Sure, every summer they would barbecue, but that, too, wasn’t exactly an afternoon with Bobby Flay at the grill. Burgers, dogs, and sometimes sausage. She’d make a potato salad, and guests would bring other sides. Beans, macaroni salad, watermelon. Typical summer fare. The men would play horseshoes and drink beer, and the women would gab about their kids or the latest local gossip. Her life was a cliché.

As she passed through the enormous produce section, she overheard three women talking in the next aisle about an event they had recently attended. It featured that psychic-medium guy who used to have the TV show. He talked to dead people. Actually, they talked to him, and he’d convey the message to their loved ones. She listened intently, making every effort to appear not to be eavesdropping. Then one of them said, “I hear there’s a woman at the Stillwell Art Center who does readings. She runs a café or something.”

Another remarked, “Yes, but it’s only by referrals.”

A third voice asked, “How do you get one?”

“I’m not sure, but I was thinking of taking the kids there next weekend. They have a place where you can watch them blow glass, make baskets, throw pottery.”

“Oooh, artsy,” one of the women said in a mocking tone.

“They also have a sandwich shop and an outdoor area for dogs.”

“What about kids?”

“They say that the kids get a kick out of watching the artists at work. I dunno. But I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Let me know how it goes and if you get in to see that psychic person.”

“Will do! See you at the soccer game.”

Lots of “byes” and “see yas.”