Desires Know No Boundary
1596 Words
The grocery store on a Tuesday afternoon was, in Amira’s experience, the only sensible time to shop. No weekend crowds, no families with three carts, no one standing in the middle of the aisle staring at their phone. She came every other week, at the same time, with the same list, taking the same route through the store, staring at produce, and ending at the frozen section so nothing thawed before she got to the register.
She had her basket in the crook of her elbow and was standing in the coffee aisle when she spotted the Classico on the top shelf. Third from the left. She was five-four on a good day, and the shelf was built for someone considerably taller. She stretched up onto her toes, fingers grazing the edge of the bag, and then a hand came over her head from behind and grabbed it cleanly.
She turned around. It was Logan. It has been weeks since she saw him.
He was in a plain grey hoodie and sweatpants, a small basket in his other hand, looking like he hadn’t expected this any more than she had.
“Hey,” he said, and handed her the bag.
“Hey.” She took it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
They stood there for a second. He glanced at her basket. She looked at his.
“You shop here?” she asked, which was obvious and a little stupid, but it was the first thing that came to mind
out.
“Sometimes. I’m usually at Willows Mall, not too far from the campus, but I was driving past and needed a few things.”
“Right.”
Another pause. Amira turned back to the shelf, as if she still had decisions to make, which she didn't; she’d already decided on Classico.
“Is that the one you actually like,” Logan said, nodding at the bag in her hand, “or the one you grabbed because it was the only one you could reach?”
She looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying. There’s Balkiss right next to it. Better taste. Better roast.”
“I’ve had Balkiss. It’s too acidic for me in the morning.”
“You’re drinking it wrong, then.”
“I’m drinking it wrong,” she repeated.
“You’re probably doing a regular drip. You need to do a pour-over. Different grind, different temperature, it completely changes the profile.”
“I know what a pour-over is.”
“Then you should know Balkiss is better.”
Amira put Classico coffee in her basket. “I’ll keep what I have, thank you.”
He smiled and dropped it. They both started moving down the aisle in the same direction, which made walking away from the conversation without being rude impossible, so she didn’t try.
“Tuesday shopper,” he said. “Best day?”
“Best day. You?”
“I used to do Sundays. It’s terrible. Everyone does Sundays.”
“You’re right. Everyone does Sundays. And they all bring their whole family.” She agreed.
“And they block the entire aisle.”
“Standing still. Not even looking at anything. Just standing.” She said.
He laughed, which was easy, but not performed. She noticed that. They drifted into the next aisle together without either of them making a decision. He picked up a container of Greek yogurt and looked at it.
“Faley or Starnes,” he said.
“Faley. It is not even a debate.” She replied.
“I’ve been doing Starnes for years.”
“Why?” She asked.
He looked at the container. “Habit, I guess.”
“Faley is thicker. Better protein ratio. Starnes has more sugar in the flavored ones.”
“I do plain.”
“Then definitely Faley. You’re just doing it out of loyalty to something that doesn’t deserve it.”
“Faley, it is then.” He put Starnes back and picked up Faley.
She felt unreasonably pleased about it.
They went on like that through a few more aisles. Logan argued with her about oat milk versus whole milk, which was a real argument she took seriously, and she won it because he admitted he couldn’t actually taste the difference in a latte, which meant it was a psychological preference and those didn’t count.
Logan pushed back on her choice of pasta, which was a*****e-brand penne, and she told him the store brand was made in the same facility as the expensive stuff, which he didn’t believe but couldn’t disprove. She picked up a bar of dark chocolate, and he told her anything above 80% cacao was for people who wanted to suffer. She said some people had taste, and he said some people were just contrary.
It was easy. That was the honest thing about it. The first thirty seconds had been weird, the weird that comes from running into someone you’ve only met once in a context that wasn’t supposed to repeat itself. But after that, it settled into something comfortable, and she stopped thinking about whether it should be.
At the register, Logan put his basket on the belt behind hers and, before she could do anything about it, he told the cashier he was paying for both baskets.
“You don’t have to do that,” Amira said.
“I know.”
“Logan.”
“It’s groceries.”
“I have my card out.”
“Put it away.”
She looked at him. He was looking at the cashier, who was already scanning his card. Amira put her card back in her wallet because the moment had passed, and making a scene about it was more trouble than it was worth. She told herself that.
“Thank you,” she said when they were walking toward the exit.
“You can pay me back in pour-over coffee made with the correct beans.”
“I’m still keeping the Classico.”
“Unfortunate.”
Logan walked with her to her car, which was toward the back of the lot. It wasn’t a long walk. She clicked her key fob, and the trunk opened. She started loading bags in, and he stood nearby without it being strange.
“You’ve been watching any of the game lately?” he asked.
“Some of them.” She moved a bag to make room for another. “You had a good stretch last month.”
“It was alright. We’ve got another game on Friday. It should be an easier night.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I never jinx things.”
She closed the trunk. He was quiet for a second and then said, “Have you seen Gael lately?”
It came out natural, but she could tell by the slight shift in how he held himself that he hadn’t entirely planned to say
it.
“No. He's been busy with the games.” She said.
Logan nodded. He wasn’t pushing for anything, she could see that. He’d said it, and now he was leaving it.
“We’re not—” she started, then stopped, then decided just to say the honest version. “Gael and I…we are not a thing. We’re friends who enjoy each other’s company.”
“Okay,” Logan said.
“I’m not saying that for any particular reason.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Amira looked at him. He looked back. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, and she respected that. She moved around to the driver’s side, and he followed, not crowding her, just walking.
Amira opened the door, and before she could get in, he put one hand on top of the door frame, not blocking her, just there.
“It was good to see you again, Amira.” He said it, with no inflection, no weight added. “Officially, this time.”
The way he said her name did something specific to the base of her spine. She didn’t acknowledge it. She didn’t let it show.
“Officially.” She said.
Amira got into the car. He closed the door for her, stepped back, and she backed out of the spot without looking at him again, which took more effort than it should have.
The drive home was twenty minutes, and she spent most of it staring at the road and not thinking clearly. He was easy to talk to. That was a thing she hadn’t expected and now couldn’t unknow. She’d expected him to be like the version of him she’d half-constructed since the night they met, attractive and probably a little arrogant and easier to hold at a distance in her head. He hadn’t cooperated with that.
She thought about what she’d said. That she and Gael weren’t together, it was true. It had always been true. The arrangement she had with Gael had never had any terms around exclusivity, never any expectation of it. They hadn’t discussed it in those words, cause they hadn’t needed to. It was understood on both sides. That was what made it work.
So she had said something true to someone who happened to be Gael’s teammate. That was all.
She turned onto her street, pulled into her parking space, and sat in the car for an extra minute after she turned the engine off.
He had coffee opinions, and he’d paid for her groceries, and he’d said her name like he’d been saying it for a while.
Amira sighed. She grabbed her bags and went inside.
- Writer
