The argument started at the grocery store.
"It's not milk, Naomi. It's nut water. They squeezed an almond and called it dairy and you fell for it."
"It has calcium."
"So does chalk. Doesn't mean I'm putting it in my coffee."
"You don't even drink coffee. You drink whatever that brown liquid is that Cole makes in your kitchen that tastes like engine failure."
"That's called drip coffee and it's fine."
"It's not fine. It's a war crime in a mug."
He put the almond milk in the cart anyway. Because he always put the thing I wanted in the cart while arguing against it – the protest performative, the whole routine a language we'd invented for saying I love you without the words he still couldn't manage.
Saturday morning. Grocery store. The fluorescent-lit, linoleum-floored, completely unr
