Saturday morning had the gray, undecided quality of early March, and Nadia stood at the front door jangling the car keys until Theo finally emerged from the bedroom pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

"The list," she said.

"In my pocket." He patted his jeans, frowned, patted the other pocket, then produced a folded receipt with their handwriting overlapping on the back. "Got it."

The Corolla started on the second try, which Theo took as a personal victory. They drove first to the credit union, where Nadia deposited a check from her aunt while Theo waited in the car with the heat blowing on his hands. Then the hardware store, where they spent nine minutes debating the merits of two nearly identical furnace filters before buying the cheaper one, and where Theo also bought a bag of birdseed that hadn't been on the list at all.

"For the feeder," he said.

"We don't have a feeder."

"For the feeder I'm going to buy."

At the grocery store they split the list without discussing it, the way they had for three years now. Nadia took produce and dairy; Theo took the middle aisles and the things neither of them could remember agreeing to need. They met near the frozen foods, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops.

"You got the wrong tortillas," she said.

"They were out of the corn ones."

"They're never out of the corn ones."

They were, in fact, out of the corn ones. Nadia confirmed this herself, walking back two aisles to look, and Theo said nothing about it when she returned, which she appreciated.

The last stop was the pharmacy for Theo's inhaler refill. He waited in line while Nadia read the backs of vitamin bottles she had no intention of buying.

Home by noon. Theo carried the heavy bags. Nadia put everything away, because he never remembered where anything went.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping the last of the frost off the windshield with a plastic card, his breath hanging in the air.

"You have the list?" he asked when she got in.

She held up her phone. "And the returns."

The Target run came first. Dev handled customer service — a pair of running shoes that had blistered his heels within a week — while Marisol pushed the cart toward the household aisle. When he found her, she was comparing two brands of laundry detergent with the intensity of a jeweler.

"That one's four dollars more," he said.

"It's the one that doesn't make you itch."

"Oh." He put it in the cart.

At the grocery store they split up. He took produce and the deli counter; she took the interior aisles and the pharmacy, where she picked up her prescription and a birthday card for his mother. They reconvened near the frozen section, comparing hauls like they were reporting from separate expeditions. He'd forgotten the eggs. She'd forgotten the coffee filters. They doubled back, then split the checkout, one bagging while the other paid.

The last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter and a new washer for the leaking bathroom faucet, which had been dripping since October. Dev held the old washer up to the display rack, squinting.

"That one," Marisol said.

"You sure?"

"I watched three videos."

Back home, they carried the bags in together — four trips, because neither of them liked making four trips. Dev put away the cold things. Marisol started coffee. Outside, the sky was going gray again, and the faucet, for another hour at least, kept dripping.


The rain had stopped by the time Priya found her keys in the pocket of a jacket she'd worn three days ago. Marcus was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with his thumb.

"Bank first," she said, buckling in. "The check's been in my bag since Tuesday."

"It'll be a line. Saturday."

"Then we go to the pharmacy while we wait for the line to not be a line."

He backed out without arguing, which she took as agreement. The bank line was, in fact, six people deep, so they walked two doors down to pick up his allergy prescription and a birthday card for his sister. Priya vetoed the first three cards for being too sentimental and the fourth for having a cartoon dog on it.

"She likes dogs," Marcus said.

"She likes her dog. That's a beagle. Kayla has a pit mix."

They settled on one with a photograph of a lake.

The bank took eleven minutes. Then the grocery store, where they split the list without discussing it, the way they had for four years now — he took produce and the deli counter, she took everything in the middle aisles. They found each other again by the eggs. He had gotten the wrong kind of bread. She put it back and got the seeded one.

At the register, the total came up higher than either expected, and they both looked at it, and then at each other, and Marcus said, "The olive oil," and Priya said, "It was on sale," and he said, "Not that sale," and they left it at that.

They stopped for gas on the way home. He pumped; she went inside for a coffee and came back with two. The car smelled like rotisserie chicken the whole ride, and neither of them mentioned it, and both of them noticed.


The rain had let up by the time Danielle found her keys under a pile of unopened mail. Marcus was already in the driveway, scraping a stubborn film of pollen off the windshield with a squeegee he'd bought at a gas station three years ago and never thrown away.

"Bank first," he said, "or grocery store?"

"Bank first. Otherwise the ice cream melts and you get sad."

They took his car because hers made a noise neither of them wanted to think about. At the credit union, Danielle waited in line while Marcus filled out a deposit slip against the wall, his handwriting cramped and slanted. The teller asked if they wanted the receipt printed or emailed, and they answered at the same time—printed, emailed—and laughed, and took the printed one.

The pharmacy pickup took eleven minutes longer than it should have. Marcus leaned against a display of heating pads and read the ingredients on a bottle of allergy medicine out loud in a solemn voice until Danielle told him to stop.

At the grocery store, they split the list. She took produce and dairy; he took the middle aisles, which he claimed were his specialty. They reconvened near the frozen section, and he'd added two things that weren't on the list.

"Pickles?"

"They were on sale."

"We have pickles."

"We have bad pickles."

She let it go. In the checkout line, she noticed he'd remembered the specific brand of coffee she liked without being asked, and she thought about mentioning it and didn't.

They loaded the trunk in the parking lot, the cart rattling as Marcus pushed it back to the corral because he refused, on principle, to leave it. On the drive home Danielle read street signs out loud for no reason, and he didn't ask her to stop.


The rain had stopped by the time Marcus found his keys under a pile of unopened mail. Dana was already in the car, engine running, the passenger seat cleared of the water bottles and gym bag that usually lived there.

"Bank first," she said as he climbed in. "The check from your mom's been sitting in my purse for two weeks."

"Because you keep forgetting."

"Because you keep saying you'll do it."

They took the long way, avoiding the construction on Ridgeline. At the credit union, Dana went inside while Marcus waited in the car, scrolling through a group text about someone's birthday dinner. She came back out with a lollipop and handed it to him without comment.

The hardware store was next. They needed a new washer for the kitchen faucet, which had been dripping since March, and Marcus wanted to look at paint samples for the spare room. Dana held up two nearly identical shades of gray and made him choose. He picked the one on the left. She put back the one on the right and said he'd made the right call, which they both knew meant she'd already decided.

At the grocery store, they split the list. Dana took produce and dairy; Marcus took the middle aisles and, unavoidably, the snack section. They met near the frozen foods and negotiated. She put back the second box of ice cream. He kept the pretzel thins.

In line, Dana remembered they were out of dish soap. Marcus jogged back for it while she loaded the belt, and he returned just in time to swipe his card, which was a small point of pride.

Driving home, they passed the dry cleaner and Dana groaned.

"Tomorrow," Marcus said.

"You said that Tuesday."

"And I'll say it again Thursday."

She laughed and turned up the radio. The groceries shifted in the trunk as they turned onto their street.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a film of pollen off the windshield with his forearm, which she pointed out was pointless.

"It's aesthetic," he said.

The list was on her phone, though he'd added things to it throughout the week: *oat milk (the blue one, not the gray one)*, *lightbulbs?*, *whatever makes the sink stop smelling like that*. She read them aloud at the first red light and he defended each one.

At the credit union, she waited in the car while he deposited a check from his uncle, a birthday thing that had arrived four months late. He came back out with two lollipops from the teller's bowl and handed her the green one without asking, because he knew.

The hardware store took longer than it should have. Dev wanted to compare drain cleaners. Marisol wandered two aisles over and came back with a small terra-cotta pot she had no plan for. He looked at it, then at her, and said nothing, which was its own kind of comment. She put it in the cart anyway.

Grocery store, finally. They split the list the way they always did—she took produce and the middle aisles, he took dairy and the meat counter—and reconvened near the frozen foods, where he was holding two bags of dumplings and looking genuinely torn. They got both.

In the checkout line she noticed he'd snuck in a box of the cereal she pretended not to like. He noticed her noticing.

Loading the trunk in the parking lot, the sun came out for real, hot on the back of her neck. Dev slammed the hatch and asked if she wanted to get tacos instead of cooking. She said yes before he finished the sentence.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a pile of unopened mail. Devon was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with his thumb.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, coffee, the good bread, whatever you were supposed to remember about the light bulbs."

"Sixty watts. Soft white. I remembered."

They stopped at the bank first because it closed at noon on Saturdays, and Devon had a check from his uncle that had been sitting on the counter for three weeks, curling at the edges. Marisol waited in the car with the heater on, watching a woman in the next lot try to fold a stroller with one hand.

At the pharmacy, Devon picked up his prescription while Marisol wandered the seasonal aisle and came back with a bag of licorice she hadn't planned on. He looked at it and said nothing, which she appreciated.

The grocery store was crowded. They took a cart with a bad wheel and didn't switch it, out of some stubbornness neither of them named. Devon read the label on a jar of pasta sauce for longer than seemed necessary. Marisol got distracted by a display of clementines and had to be found near the bakery.

"I got the bread," she said, holding it up like evidence.

"That's not the good bread."

"They didn't have the good bread."

He accepted this. In the checkout line, they debated whether they already had eggs at home. They bought eggs. There were, it turned out, seven eggs at home.

The last stop was the dry cleaner, where Devon's one nice shirt had been waiting since a wedding in September. The clerk found it after some searching, still in plastic, still faintly smelling of the ceremony.

Driving back, Marisol ate licorice and read him the weather for the week. It was going to rain again Tuesday.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail on the counter. Dev was already by the door, pulling on his jacket, the reusable bags bunched in one fist like a bouquet of limp flowers.

"Pharmacy first," he said. "They close at six on Saturdays."

"They close at seven."

"They changed it. There was a sign."

Marisol didn't argue. She'd learned that Dev noticed signs — closing times, detour notices, the small print on rental agreements — with a thoroughness she found both irritating and reassuring.

The pharmacy took eleven minutes. Dev's prescription wasn't ready, so they waited near the blood pressure machine while Marisol sat down and cuffed her arm for no reason other than that it was there. One-eighteen over seventy-six. She showed him the readout like a report card.

At the grocery store they split the list. Dev took produce and the bakery; Marisol took the interior aisles, where she stood a long time in front of the pasta sauces, trying to remember which one he'd complained about. She bought a different brand entirely. He met her by the dairy case holding a carton of eggs open, checking for cracks.

"They had those little peppers," he said. "The ones you like."

"Did you get them?"

"I got two bags."

At the register she pulled the card from her wallet and he didn't reach for his, because it was her turn, and they kept track loosely, without resentment.

The last errand was the hardware store, for a furnace filter and a package of picture hooks they'd been meaning to buy since August. Dev held the filter up to the light, squinting at the dimensions printed on the cardboard frame.

"Sixteen by twenty-five," Marisol said.

"I know. I'm just checking."

They loaded the car in the gray afternoon and drove home the back way, past the reservoir, saying almost nothing.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys, which meant Dev insisted on walking the four blocks to the co-op instead of driving.

"We have to go to the hardware store after," she reminded him, pulling the door shut behind them. "And the pharmacy."

"So we'll carry things. We have arms."

They walked past the elementary school, where the crossing guard raised two fingers in greeting. Dev returned it. He'd been doing that for six months and still didn't know the man's name.

At the co-op, Marisol pushed the cart while Dev did what he always did: disappeared into the bulk aisle and came back with something unrequested. Today it was dried figs.

"We have figs at home."

"We have three figs at home. That's a sad amount of figs."

She let it go. They moved through the produce section in the choreography of people who had done this many times—him weighing, her checking the list on her phone, both of them stopping to argue briefly about whether the chicken thighs were still good from last Tuesday. Dev won. They bought new ones.

The hardware store took eleven minutes. A furnace filter, a package of picture-hanging hooks, and a brief detour where Marisol looked at paint chips for a room they had not agreed to paint.

"That one's called Whispering Oat," Dev said.

"I know what it's called."

"That's an insane thing to name a color."

At the pharmacy she waited in line while he read the greeting cards out loud from two aisles over, badly, in a voice meant to make her laugh in public. It worked, a little.

They walked home splitting the bags, Dev with the heavier one because he'd insisted. The sun had come out fully now, steam rising off the sidewalk. Somewhere behind them the crossing guard was blowing his whistle.

"Ask him his name next time," Marisol said.

"I will."

He didn't.


The rain had stopped by the time Nadia found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Owen was already in the driveway, scraping a film of wet leaves off the windshield with a library card he'd probably need later.

"Bank first," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Then the hardware store, then Kroger."

"Hardware store closes at six."

"It's two."

"I'm just saying." He backed out slowly, the way he always did, checking the mirror three times.

At the bank they stood in line behind a man depositing a shoebox of quarters. Nadia leaned against Owen's shoulder and read the interest rates off a laminated placard, mispronouncing "amortization" on purpose until he corrected her.

The hardware store took eleven minutes. Owen needed a washer for the bathroom faucet, which had been dripping since August. He held up two nearly identical packages and asked which one, and Nadia said the left one with total confidence, having no idea. He bought both.

Kroger was crowded. They split up—Nadia took produce and dairy, Owen took the middle aisles with the list on his phone. She found him twenty minutes later comparing two jars of pasta sauce like a man defusing something.

"Get the cheap one."

"The cheap one has corn syrup."

"Get the other one, then."

"I'm going to." He put it in the cart anyway with a look of mild betrayal.

In the checkout line she remembered they were out of coffee filters and jogged back for them. Owen was loading bags into the trunk when she came out, and he took the box from her without comment and wedged it beside the milk.

They drove home with the windows cracked. She read him the ingredients on the sauce jar in the voice of a documentary narrator until he laughed and told her to stop, which she did, briefly.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of April weather that couldn't commit to rain. Marisol found Dev in the kitchen already writing the list on the back of an envelope, his handwriting cramped and slanting downhill.

"Coffee filters," she said, pouring the last of the pot into a travel mug. "We're on our third rinse of the same one."

"That's disgusting." He wrote it down anyway.

They took her car because his still had the check-engine light on, a problem they'd been agreeing to address for six weeks. The first stop was the dry cleaner's, where Dev handed over the ticket and discovered that only one of his two shirts had made it back. The woman behind the counter apologized and offered to check the racks. Marisol wandered out to look at the hardware store next door while she waited.

At the pharmacy she picked up her prescription and he bought a birthday card for his sister, holding up three options and asking her opinion until she pointed at the one with the ugly cartoon dog. "That one. She'll think it's funny."

The grocery store was crowded. They split the list without discussing it—she took produce and dairy, he took the middle aisles—and met near the frozen section, where he'd added a bag of tater tots that wasn't on the envelope.

"For emergencies," he said.

"What emergency requires tater tots?"

"You'll know it when it happens."

She let it go. In the checkout line, he bagged while she paid, and they loaded the trunk in the parking lot as the drizzle finally started. On the drive home she remembered they'd forgotten coffee filters entirely.

Dev laughed and said he'd walk to the corner store later. He didn't, and they rinsed the old one again on Sunday, and neither of them mentioned it.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail on the counter. Dev was already by the door, pulling on the jacket with the torn pocket he refused to throw away.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "It's in my notes. You'll forget the coffee filters."

"I forgot them once."

"Twice."

The grocery store on Harlan Avenue was crowded for a Saturday, and they moved through it the way they always did—Dev pushing the cart, Marisol darting ahead to the produce and doubling back with things she hadn't asked permission for. Two avocados that weren't quite ripe. A jar of the olives he liked.

"We already have olives," he said.

"We have three left. That's not olives, that's a rumor of olives."

He didn't argue. In the cereal aisle he stopped to compare unit prices, squinting at the little orange tags, and she leaned against the cart and let him. It took him four minutes. It always took him four minutes.

Afterward they hit the pharmacy for her prescription, then the hardware store for a furnace filter, because the one in the hall closet had been sitting in there since March with a note on it in Dev's handwriting that said REPLACE ME. The clerk asked what size, and neither of them knew, so Dev pulled up a photo he'd taken of the old one. Marisol looked at him with something like admiration.

"That's the most organized thing you've ever done."

"I have layers."

The last stop was the dry cleaner, closed, hours changed without warning. They stood in the parking lot for a second, groceries sweating in the trunk.

"Tuesday," Marisol said.

"Tuesday," he agreed.

On the drive home she put her feet on the dashboard, and he didn't tell her not to.


Marisol found the keys behind the coffee canister, where they'd migrated sometime during the week. "Ready?"

Dev was still lacing his boots by the door, one hand braced against the wall. "Did you check if we need dish soap?"

"We need dish soap. And whatever that spray is you use on the shower."

They took his car because hers was making a sound neither of them wanted to investigate before payday. The morning had that thin March brightness, cold enough that Marisol kept her hands in her sleeves while Dev scraped a film of frost from the windshield with an old library card.

First stop was the pharmacy, where Dev's prescription wasn't ready, and the woman behind the counter said fifteen minutes in a tone that meant thirty. They wandered the aisles. Marisol picked up a birthday card for her nephew, held it up, and Dev shook his head. She put it back and found one with a dinosaur on it, and he gave her a thumbs up without looking away from the reading glasses display.

At the grocery store they split the list. He took produce and the bakery; she took the middle aisles and the dairy case. They found each other again near the frozen foods, comparing carts like two people reporting from separate expeditions.

"You got the wrong yogurt," she said.

"They didn't have the plain kind. This was the closest."

"This is vanilla."

"It's closer than strawberry."

She laughed and let it go.

The last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter, which took four minutes and involved Dev standing in front of a wall of identical white rectangles until Marisol read the size off a photo on her phone.

By noon the groceries were on the counter, half of them still bagged, and neither of them was in a hurry to finish.


The rain had let up by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Dev was already in the passenger seat, scrolling through a list he'd typed into his phone at two in the morning when he couldn't sleep.

"Bank first," he said. "Then the hardware store, then Fiesta, then the dry cleaner if we're not dead."

"The dry cleaner closes at six on Saturdays."

"Then dry cleaner second."

They rearranged the order twice more before backing out of the driveway. At the bank, Marisol deposited a check from her mother that had been sitting on the fridge for three weeks while Dev waited in the car with the engine running, texting his sister about a birthday gift neither of them had bought yet.

The hardware store took longer than it should have. Dev needed a specific size of washer for the leaking faucet in the guest bathroom, and the employee who knew where things were had apparently gone on break. Marisol wandered into the paint aisle and came back holding two swatches, both of which looked identical to Dev.

"This one's warmer," she said.

"It's the same beige."

"It's greige."

At the grocery store they split up—she took produce and dairy, he took everything in the middle aisles—and reconvened near the checkout, where Dev had somehow acquired a bag of frozen dumplings that wasn't on the list. Marisol looked at him. He put them in the cart anyway.

The dry cleaner had closed at five, not six. They stood at the locked glass door for a moment, Dev holding the receipt he'd found in his jacket pocket, and then they laughed, because it was Saturday and the trunk was full and neither of them needed the clothes until Thursday.

On the drive home, Marisol turned on the radio and Dev fell asleep at a red light.


Marisol found the keys where Dev always left them—on the windowsill above the sink, next to the jar of dried-out sponges neither of them would throw away.

"Bank first or store first?" she asked, holding the door with her hip.

"Bank." Dev shrugged into his jacket. "The check's been in my wallet since Tuesday. It's getting soft."

The credit union had one teller working and a line of four people, so they stood in the roped-off maze and did nothing, which was fine. Dev read the rates posted on the wall. Marisol tried to remember whether they had eggs.

"We have eggs," Dev said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You did the thing where you look at the ceiling."

At the grocery store she took the cart because he pushed it too fast. They split up in produce—she went for the apples, he went for cilantro and came back with cilantro and a bag of limes nobody had asked for. In the cereal aisle they had a short, low-stakes disagreement about whether the store brand was actually identical to the name brand. Dev put the store brand in the cart. Marisol let it happen.

The pharmacy counter took eleven minutes. Dev held the cart while she signed for her refill, and when she came back he had eaten three grapes out of the bag, which she noticed and decided not to litigate.

Last stop was the hardware store for furnace filters, because the furnace had been making a noise. They walked the wrong aisle twice. Dev read the box, Marisol read the number written in Sharpie on the old filter she'd photographed with her phone, and they agreed, eventually, on a size.

In the parking lot the sky had gone the color of dishwater. Dev loaded bags. Marisol returned the cart, even though it was far, because she always did.

"Dinner?" he asked.

"Eggs," she said. "Apparently."


Saturday morning arrived gray and cold, the kind of March day that couldn't commit to winter or spring. Dana found her keys in the pocket of Marcus's coat, where they'd migrated sometime during the week.

"Ready?" she called down the hallway.

Marcus emerged holding the list, which he'd rewritten in his own handwriting because hers, he claimed, looked like a doctor's prescription. "We need to hit the bank before it closes at noon."

They took his car because hers still had the check engine light on—a problem they'd been discussing, and not solving, for three weeks. Dana drove. Marcus never argued about that anymore.

At the credit union, he deposited a check from his freelance work while she waited in the car with the heat running, scrolling through her phone. Then the pharmacy, where she picked up her prescription and he wandered the seasonal aisle, coming back with a bag of jellybeans neither of them needed.

The grocery store was crowded. They split up efficiently: Marcus to produce and dairy, Dana to the center aisles. She texted him a photo of two different pasta sauces. He replied with a thumbs up, which was useless, so she bought both.

They found each other in the frozen section, arguing amiably about whether they already had frozen peas at home. Neither could remember. They bought peas.

At checkout, Marcus bagged while Dana paid, then he loaded the trunk with the trash bags and the twelve-pack of seltzer he insisted on carrying alone.

Last stop was the dry cleaner, where his one good suit had been waiting since a wedding in January.

"That's everything," he said, checking the list, folding it into his pocket.

Back home, they unloaded together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with the ease of people who'd learned each other's habits. The peas went in the freezer, beside two other bags of peas.


The rain had let up by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Devon was already in the car, engine running, adjusting the heater vents the way he always did—too hot, then too cold, then finally something neither of them would admit was fine.

"Pharmacy first," she said, buckling in. "Your prescription's been sitting there since Tuesday."

"It's been sitting there since Tuesday because you said you'd grab it Tuesday."

"I said I'd try."

They took the long way to avoid the construction on Warren Street. At the pharmacy, Devon went in alone while Marisol waited in the passenger seat, scrolling through a text thread with her sister about Thanksgiving logistics. He came back out with the prescription and a bag of gummy worms, which he set on the console between them without comment. She ate four before they reached the grocery store.

Inside, they split the list. Devon took produce and dairy; Marisol took everything in the middle aisles. They met at the end of the pasta section, where he informed her that the store had stopped carrying the ricotta she liked.

"They didn't stop carrying it. You just didn't look."

"I looked."

She found it in ninety seconds, on a lower shelf, and held it up without saying anything. He took it from her and put it in the cart.

The self-checkout ate one of their coupons. Devon flagged down an employee named Reggie who scanned a badge and fixed it in about six seconds, and both of them thanked him more than the situation required.

Last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter. Marisol read the size off a photo she'd taken of the old one. Devon carried it to the register.

Driving home, she asked if he wanted to order Thai instead of cooking. He said yes before she finished the sentence.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the coffee taste better. Dana found the grocery list on the counter where Marcus had left it, half in his handwriting and half in hers, with "??" scrawled next to an item neither of them could decipher.

"What is this? 'Tortellini' or 'tortillas'?"

Marcus looked up from tying his shoes. "Both. Get both."

They took his car because hers needed an oil change, which was errand number three on a list that had grown since Thursday. The wipers squeaked against the windshield on the drive to the pharmacy, where Dana picked up her prescription while Marcus wandered the seasonal aisle and returned with a bag of discounted Halloween candy in November.

"We don't need that."

"It was seventy percent off."

At the grocery store they split up, a system they'd developed over four years of living together. Marcus took produce and dairy; Dana took everything else. They met at the end of aisle nine, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops. He had gotten the wrong kind of yogurt. She had forgotten dish soap. They resolved both problems and stood in the self-checkout line behind a man buying forty cans of cat food.

The hardware store came next. Marcus needed a specific washer for the leaking bathroom faucet, and Dana wandered off to look at paint samples she had no intention of buying, holding two nearly identical shades of green up to the fluorescent light.

"This one," Marcus said, pointing without breaking stride.

"They're the same."

"Then it doesn't matter."

By noon the trunk was full and the rain had stopped. They stopped for tacos on the way home and ate them in the parking lot with the windows down, the receipt from the hardware store fluttering on the dashboard, the groceries slowly warming in the back, and neither of them in any particular hurry to move.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the apartment feel smaller than usual. Delia found her keys under a stack of unopened mail while Marcus stood at the door, already wearing his jacket, holding a canvas bag in each hand.

"The list," he said.

"In my phone." She patted her pocket. "Milk, eggs, coffee, whatever you wrote down at two in the morning."

"Peanut butter. The crunchy kind."

The bank came first because the line would only get worse. Marcus deposited a check from his freelance work while Delia stood by the counter reading a flyer about home equity loans, thinking about nothing in particular. Then the hardware store, where they spent eleven minutes debating the difference between two furnace filters that appeared identical and cost three dollars apart.

"Just get the cheaper one," Delia said.

"The cheaper one is thinner."

"It's a rectangle of paper."

He got the more expensive one. She let it go.

At the grocery store, they split up the way they always did—Marcus took produce and the middle aisles, Delia took dairy and the freezer section. They found each other again near the bread, comparing carts. He had bought three avocados at wildly different stages of ripeness, a system he'd explained to her once and she had never fully believed in.

The line at checkout moved slowly. Delia loaded the belt while Marcus bagged, and when the total came up higher than either of them expected, they both made the same face without discussing it.

Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. Marcus loaded the trunk while Delia returned the cart to the corral, jogging back with her hood up.

"Dry cleaning," she said, getting in.

"Tomorrow."

"It's been there since March."

"Tomorrow," he repeated, and pulled out of the lot, and she reached over and turned the heat up.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Dev was already in the car, seat pushed back, scrolling through a playlist he'd been curating for three weeks and had yet to finish.

"Bank first," she said, buckling in. "Then the pharmacy, then Kroger. If we do groceries first, the eggs sit in the trunk for an hour."

"You say that every time."

"And every time you try to do groceries first."

The bank took nine minutes. Dev waited in the car with the engine running and texted his sister a photo of a dog he saw crossing the parking lot. At the pharmacy, Marisol picked up her prescription while he wandered the seasonal aisle and came back with a bag of discounted Halloween candy in mid-November.

"That's not on the list."

"It's eighty percent off. It's practically an investment."

The grocery store was crowded in the way Saturday afternoons always are. They split the list without discussing it—she took produce and dairy, he took the middle aisles and the things she never remembered, like coffee filters and dish soap. They found each other again near the deli counter, comparing carts.

"You got the wrong pasta."

"There were four kinds of penne."

"There's one kind of penne."

At checkout, Dev bagged while Marisol paid, and they argued mildly about whether the bread should go on top or in its own bag. It went on top. It got a little squashed.

Home was twelve minutes away. They unloaded together, Marisol handing bags up from the trunk, Dev carrying three at a time because he refused, on principle, to make two trips. In the kitchen, she put things away while he broke down the boxes for recycling.

By four o'clock the list was crossed off, and the candy was already open on the counter.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the apartment feel smaller than it was. Delia found her keys under a stack of unopened mail while Marcus scraped the last of the oatmeal from the pot.

"List?" he asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.

She held up her phone. "Milk, eggs, that bread you like. And we're out of dish soap again."

"We're always out of dish soap."

The car took two tries to start, as it had all winter. Marcus drove because Delia hated the merge onto Route 9, and she navigated by memory, calling out turns he already knew. At the bank, she went in to deposit a check from her aunt while he waited with the engine running, listening to a podcast about shipwrecks. She came back complaining about the line, and he handed her half of a granola bar without being asked.

The pharmacy took longer. Marcus's prescription wasn't ready, so they wandered the aisles, Delia examining reading glasses she didn't need, Marcus reading the backs of vitamin bottles with genuine interest. He bought a birthday card for his sister. Delia picked out a candy bar and paid for it separately, which annoyed her about herself.

The grocery store was crowded with people who'd had the same idea about beating the afternoon rain. They split up—she took produce and dairy, he took the aisles—and met again near the checkout, comparing baskets like people returning from separate expeditions.

"You got the wrong bread," she said.

"They didn't have the other one."

"They always have the other one."

He shrugged. She let it go.

At home, they carried the bags up together, three trips each, and Marcus put things away in the wrong cabinets while Delia hung her coat and started the coffee. Outside, the rain finally began.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Dev was already in the car, adjusting the seat back to where he liked it, which meant she'd have to move it again next time. She let it go.

"Bank first," she said, buckling in. "Then Target, then groceries, then that thing at the post office."

"The thing at the post office."

"The package for your mother. It's been in the trunk for nine days."

Dev made a sound of acknowledgment that committed him to nothing.

At the credit union, Marisol deposited a check from her sister for the flight they'd fronted her in March, while Dev waited in the car and answered a work email he'd been avoiding since Thursday. At Target he pushed the cart and she filled it: paper towels, a plunger to replace the one that had cracked, a birthday card for his coworker Renee, whose name he had to spell for her twice.

The grocery store was the long stop. They split up by aisle out of habit, texting each other questions — *do we need eggs* — *we always need eggs* — and reconvened near the frozen section, where Dev held up two brands of shrimp and Marisol chose the cheaper one without breaking stride. In line, he pressed his thumb into the small of her back while she scrolled through her phone, and neither of them commented on it.

The post office had closed at four. It was 4:20.

"Nine days," Marisol said.

"Ten tomorrow."

They put the groceries in the trunk around the package, and Dev drove home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her knee, and she let the window down because the air after rain was the only thing that made errands worth doing.


The rain had let up by the time Marisol found her keys under the mail pile. Devin was already in the driveway, scraping something crusted off the windshield with his thumbnail.

"Bird," he said. "Or a very small comet."

"Bird," she confirmed, climbing into the passenger seat.

The list was mostly hers—she'd written it Sunday night in the margin of a takeout menu—but Devin had added *lightbulbs?? the hallway one* in his slanted capitals. First the pharmacy, where his prescription wasn't ready, then the hardware store, where they stood in the lighting aisle for eleven minutes debating soft white versus daylight.

"Daylight makes the hallway look like a dentist's office," Marisol said.

"Soft white makes it look like a séance."

They bought soft white. She let him think he'd won, and he knew she was letting him, and neither of them said anything about it.

At the grocery store, they split up out of habit—she took produce and dairy, he took the aisles with the things neither of them would admit to wanting. They met again near the frozen section, where he had put two pints of ice cream in the cart and she pretended not to notice.

"Did you get the tortillas?"

"I got tortillas. I got the wrong tortillas, probably."

She checked. Flour, when she'd wanted corn. "These are fine," she said, and meant it.

The self-checkout scanner refused an avocado three times before Devin waved down the attendant, a teenager who fixed it in one motion and looked mildly disappointed in them both.

They loaded the bags into the trunk. The clouds had come back low and gray over the parking lot, and the wind smelled like wet asphalt.

"Post office?" he asked.

"Closes at five. We'll do it Thursday."

He nodded, pulled out onto the road, and turned the heat up without asking, because she was already holding her hands over the vent.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail. Dev was already in the car, adjusting the heater vents even though it was fifty-five degrees out.

"You know it works better if you let it run," she said, sliding in.

"I'm optimizing."

The bank came first, because the drive-through line was short and Dev had a check from his mother that had been sitting in his wallet for three weeks. While the pneumatic tube swallowed it, Marisol read him the grocery list off her phone, and he corrected her twice—they still had rice, they were out of the good coffee, not the cheap kind.

At the pharmacy, they split up. She picked up her prescription and stood in line behind a man arguing about a coupon. Dev wandered the seasonal aisle and returned with a bag of discounted Halloween candy in mid-November, which she looked at and said nothing about, which he took as permission.

The grocery store was crowded. They fell into their usual pattern without discussing it: Dev pushed the cart and handled produce, squeezing avocados with an unearned confidence; Marisol went ahead for the packaged things, doubling back with cereal and canned tomatoes. They met near the dairy case and disagreed about whether they needed sour cream.

"For what?"

"For the thing you make with the potatoes."

"That's yogurt."

They bought sour cream.

The last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter, which Dev insisted was a fifteen-minute job and Marisol privately estimated at an hour. He compared two sizes under fluorescent light while she looked at the paint chips near the register, holding a swatch called Morning Fog up to nothing in particular.

In the parking lot, loading bags into the trunk, she asked if he wanted to get tacos instead of cooking. He said yes before she finished the sentence.


The rain had stopped by noon, leaving the parking lot at Kroger slick and shining. Devon pulled into a spot near the cart return, and Maya was already unbuckling before he cut the engine.

"You have the list?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "It's in my notes. You said you'd remember the thing for the sink."

"Drain snake. I remembered." He grabbed a cart with a wobbling front wheel and immediately swapped it for another. Maya laughed at him for it, the way she always did, and he shrugged without apology.

They moved through the store in their usual pattern—she took the produce and dairy, he took canned goods and whatever obscure item she'd added at the last minute. Today it was tahini. He found it eventually, wedged between the peanut butter and something called sunflower seed spread, and held it up over the aisle like a trophy when she came around the corner.

At checkout, Maya bagged while Devon paid. The total was more than they'd expected, as it always was, and neither of them commented on it.

The hardware store was two blocks down. Devon spent eleven minutes debating between two drain snakes with a clerk named Roy who had opinions about both. Maya wandered to the paint chips and came back with three shades of green for the bedroom, none of which Devon could distinguish from each other.

"This one," he said, pointing at random.

"That's the ugliest one."

"Then why'd you bring it?"

Last stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday card to her aunt in Toledo and Devon waited by the automated machine, reading the wanted posters he'd read a dozen times before.

Driving home, she put her feet on the dash. He told her not to. She left them there.

The groceries took two trips to carry inside.


Marisol found her keys in the fruit bowl, where she'd apparently dropped them Thursday night. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping frost off the windshield with a plastic card because they still hadn't bought an ice scraper.

"Third time this week," she said, climbing into the passenger seat.

"Fourth. But who's counting."

The list was on Marisol's phone, half of it dictated badly while she'd been cooking: *chickpeas, dish soap, that bread, oatmilk (the blue one, not the gray one).* Dev drove. They stopped at the bank first so he could deposit a check his aunt had sent for his birthday, handwritten in the memo line: *For something fun.* He put it toward the electric bill.

At the grocery store they split up, which they'd learned was faster, though it meant texting each other from opposite ends of the building. *They're out of the blue one.* A pause. *Get the gray one then, I'll survive.*

Marisol stood in front of the cereal for longer than she meant to, thinking about nothing. Dev found her there and steered the cart into her hip, gently, on purpose.

The line at the pharmacy counter took twenty minutes. Dev picked up his refill; Marisol read the labels on the reading glasses spinner and tried on a pair with tortoiseshell frames.

"You look like a substitute teacher," he said.

"That's the goal."

Last stop was the hardware store for furnace filters and, finally, an ice scraper. Dev held the door with his elbow. In the parking lot the sun had finally cut through, and the air smelled like cold asphalt and somebody's dryer sheets.

They unloaded the car together, two bags each, then went back for the rest. Marisol put the frozen things away first. Dev started the coffee. It was barely eleven.


Saturday morning arrived gray and mild, the kind of weather that made Priya want to stay under the blanket with her coffee. But Marcus was already up, standing in the kitchen doorway with the reusable bags slung over one shoulder and a grocery list written on the back of a takeout receipt.

"We need to leave before the store gets crowded," he said.

"We need to leave before you start reciting the list out loud again," she said, but she was already pulling on her sneakers.

The drive took eleven minutes. Priya handled the produce section while Marcus went after the pantry items, and they met near the dairy case, comparing carts like generals reviewing troop movements. He had grabbed the wrong yogurt—the vanilla, not the plain—and she swapped it out without saying anything, which he noticed and appreciated.

"Chicken or the salmon?" he asked.

"Salmon. You said you'd make that thing with the lemon."

"I did say that."

At checkout, the card reader stalled twice, and the cashier apologized so many times that Priya started apologizing back. Marcus loaded the bags into the trunk while she returned the cart, jogging it back to the corral because it had started to drizzle.

Next was the hardware store for furnace filters, then the dry cleaner for Marcus's good jacket, then the post office, where Priya mailed a birthday package to her nephew in Ohio and Marcus waited in the car with the engine running because the meter had four minutes left.

By eleven-thirty they were home, hauling bags up the porch steps in one exhausting trip because neither of them wanted to make two. Priya put away the cold things while Marcus broke down the boxes for recycling. The apartment smelled like rain coming through the screen door.

"Same time next week?" she said.

He was already writing something on a fresh receipt.


Rain had been threatening all morning, so Delia grabbed the umbrella from the hook by the door even though Marcus insisted the clouds were bluffing. He was already outside, scraping a film of pollen off the windshield with his forearm, which she pointed out was disgusting.

"It's efficient," he said.

The first stop was the credit union, where they had to deposit a check from Marcus's aunt, who still refused to use anything electronic. Delia waited in the car and answered three work emails while he stood in line behind a man returning a rolled tube of quarters. When Marcus came back he was chewing on a lollipop the teller had given him, unwrapped and unapologetic.

At the hardware store they argued mildly about furnace filters. Delia thought they'd bought the sixteen-by-twenty-five in March; Marcus was certain it was twenty-by-twenty-five. She won by finding a photo on her phone of the old filter, which she'd taken specifically because she'd known this would happen. He carried it to the register without comment, which was how he conceded.

The grocery store was the real event. They split the list — Marcus took produce and the deli counter, Delia took the middle aisles — and reconvened near the frozen section, where she frowned at the two containers of sour cream in his cart.

"One's for the enchiladas," he said. "One's for you to put on everything else, like a maniac."

They debated a watermelon for a full minute before agreeing it was too early in the season. At checkout, Delia bagged while Marcus loaded the belt, a division of labor that had established itself years ago without either of them naming it.

Outside, the rain finally came, sudden and fat-dropped. Delia held the umbrella over the cart instead of over either of them, and they got soaked to the shoulders laughing about it, loading bags into the trunk in the gray afternoon light.


Saturday morning arrived gray and unhurried, and Nadia was already pulling on her boots by the time Théo found his keys under a stack of mail.

"Did you make the list?" she asked.

"It's in my phone." He patted his pocket. "Eggs, oat milk, that pasta you like, and something for dinner Wednesday."

"Chicken thighs," she said. "They're on sale."

The car smelled faintly of the cardboard boxes they still hadn't broken down from the move, six weeks ago now. Théo drove. Nadia controlled the aux cord, which had been the arrangement since roughly their third date.

They hit the bank first, because the drive-through line was short and Théo had a check from his uncle that had been sitting on the counter for eleven days. Nadia rolled down her window and made faces at a toddler in the minivan beside them until the light changed.

At the grocery store, they split up, which they always agreed was more efficient and which never actually was. Nadia took produce and dairy; Théo took the aisles. They reconvened near the freezer section, where he had inexplicably acquired two boxes of ice cream sandwiches.

"They were buy one get one," he said.

"We have no freezer space."

"We'll make space."

They made space, conceptually, and got in line.

Afterward came the hardware store for a light bulb and a package of picture-hanging hooks, then the dry cleaner, where Nadia's coat had been waiting since October. The clerk found it on the second try.

By the time they got home, the sky had opened into a thin, cold drizzle. Théo carried the heavy bags. Nadia unlocked the door and held it with her hip.

"Ice cream sandwich?" he asked, unpacking.

She considered. It was eleven-fifteen in the morning.

"Yeah," she said. "Okay."

They ate them standing at the counter, groceries still half put away.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail. Devon was already in the driveway, scraping a film of pollen off the windshield with the side of his hand.

"Bank first," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Then Kroger, then the hardware store if there's time."

"There's always time. It's Saturday."

"You said that last week and we ended up eating cereal for dinner."

He backed out, one arm draped over her headrest. The bank line was four cars deep, so they idled and argued pleasantly about whether the drawer sound was called a *thunk* or a *clunk*. Marisol deposited a check from her aunt, who still didn't trust electronic transfers, and the teller sent back two lollipops, which felt like being handed a small joke.

At Kroger they split up on purpose. Devon took the left half of the list—coffee, oat milk, whatever bread was on sale—and Marisol took the right, which was mostly produce and the specific brand of hot sauce he pretended not to be picky about. They found each other again in the frozen aisle, both holding the same brand of pizza.

"Great minds," he said.

"Lazy minds."

The hardware store took eleven minutes. Devon needed a washer for the bathroom faucet that had been dripping since March, and he held three sizes up to the light like a jeweler before choosing. Marisol wandered over to the paint chips and slipped two into her pocket, a soft green and a warmer one, not saying anything yet about the spare room.

Back home, they carried everything in one trip because Devon insisted, and dropped half a bag of oranges on the walkway. Marisol laughed so hard she had to sit down on the step while he chased them into the grass, cursing cheerfully, the afternoon going gold behind him.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Devon was already at the door, holding both reusable bags and the list she'd written on the back of a receipt.

"You added ginger," he said, squinting at her handwriting. "We have ginger."

"That ginger is a fossil. It's in the crisper drawer like a little mummy."

He conceded the point. In the car, she drove because he'd driven last time, an arrangement they'd never formally agreed to but followed anyway. The first stop was the pharmacy, where Devon picked up his prescription and lingered too long in the seasonal aisle, coming back with a bag of discounted Halloween candy in mid-November.

"That's for us," he clarified. "Not for anyone."

At the grocery store they split up, which they always regretted. Marisol texted him a photo of two nearly identical jars of pasta sauce. He replied with a thumbs up, which answered nothing. She bought both. They reunited near the frozen foods, where he had somehow acquired a rotisserie chicken and a bouquet of grocery store carnations, slightly bruised.

"They were three dollars," he said, defensive before she said anything.

"I like them."

The checkout line moved slowly. A toddler ahead of them screamed about a balloon. Devon bagged while Marisol paid, and they loaded the trunk in the parking lot as the sky went orange behind the shopping center.

One more stop: the hardware store, for a furnace filter and a replacement bulb for the porch light that had been burnt out since September. Devon compared filter sizes on his phone against a photo he'd taken of the old one. Marisol found the bulbs.

They got home in the dark. She carried the flowers; he carried everything else, because he always insisted, and she'd stopped arguing about it years ago. The porch light was still out. They'd fix it tomorrow.


The rain had stopped by the time Marcus found his keys, which meant Dana insisted on walking to the pharmacy first instead of driving.

"It's four blocks," she said, pulling her hood down. "You need the steps."

"I need coffee."

"That's on the way."

It was, technically, though the coffee shop added seven minutes and a small argument about whether oat milk counted as a personal betrayal. Marcus carried both cups while Dana signed for her prescription and asked the pharmacist a question about generics that took longer than either of them expected. Marcus read the ingredients on a bag of cough drops and thought about how he'd known her six years now, and how she still asked strangers questions he would have been too embarrassed to ask.

The grocery store was crowded for a Saturday. They split up—Dana took produce and dairy, Marcus took the aisles—which was efficient and also meant Marcus could sneak the expensive crackers into the cart before she noticed. She noticed at checkout.

"These are nine dollars."

"They're good."

"They're nine-dollar crackers."

She didn't put them back.

In the car, driving home with the bags shifting in the trunk, Dana remembered the library books. Marcus made a face, turned left instead of right, and idled at the curb while she ran the returns inside. Through the windshield he watched her hold the door for an older man with a walker, then wave off his thanks. When she came back she was holding a flyer for a community garden plot.

"We don't have time for a garden," Marcus said.

"I know."

She folded it and put it in the glovebox anyway, on top of the insurance card and a napkin from some restaurant neither of them remembered. Then she put her hand on his knee, and he pulled out into traffic, and the afternoon went on like that.


The alarm on Dana's phone buzzed at nine, which she ignored, and again at nine-fifteen, which she also ignored, until Marcus pulled the blanket off her feet.

"Bank closes at noon on Saturdays," he said.

They took his car because hers still had the check engine light on. Dana rode with the grocery list balanced on her knee, adding things as she remembered them—coffee filters, the good olive oil, whatever they needed for the thing his sister was bringing over Thursday.

The bank first. Marcus deposited a check from a side job while Dana waited in the lobby, reading the flyers about auto loans and pretending to be interested. Then the hardware store, where they spent eleven minutes in the lighting aisle disagreeing about whether the bulb in the hallway was a sixty or a seventy-five watt equivalent. Marcus bought both. Dana said that was wasteful. Marcus said it was insurance.

At the grocery store, they split the list the way they always did. He took produce and dairy; she took the middle aisles and anything requiring comparison of unit prices. They found each other again near the frozen section, both cart-less, having each assumed the other had grabbed one.

"You're kidding," Dana said.

"I thought you had it."

She went back for a cart. He held the bagged spinach and two cartons of eggs against his chest and looked, she thought, faintly ridiculous.

The line at checkout was long. Dana read the covers of magazines. Marcus counted the cash in his wallet and found four dollars less than he expected. On the drive home they argued mildly about whether to stop for lunch, decided against it, then stopped anyway at the taqueria on Fifth because he slowed down and she didn't tell him not to.

They ate in the car with the windows down. The groceries would keep. Most of them, anyway.


Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzling, which suited Marisol fine. She'd been looking forward to the errands all week—not the errands themselves, but the ordinary companionship of them.

"Do we need coffee filters?" Dev called from the kitchen, where he was rummaging through the cabinet above the stove.

"We have like forty. You bought some in September and forgot."

"That sounds like me." He appeared in the doorway with his jacket half on, one sleeve dangling. "Bank first or store first?"

"Bank first. Then the hardware place for the light bulb, then groceries last so nothing melts."

They took his car because hers needed an oil change, a fact she reminded him of twice on the way. At the credit union he deposited a check from a freelance job while she waited in the car with the heat on, scrolling through a recipe she'd saved and then abandoned two weeks ago.

The hardware store took longer than expected. Dev held up two different bulbs, squinting at the packaging. "Soft white or daylight?"

"Soft white. Daylight makes the bathroom look like a police interrogation."

"Noted."

At the grocery store they split the list without discussing it, a division of labor worn smooth by three years of practice. He took produce and the deli counter; she took the middle aisles and dairy. They reconvened near the frozen foods, where he had inexplicably acquired a bag of tortilla chips that wasn't on the list.

"They were on sale."

"They're always on sale."

She let it go. In the checkout line he loaded the belt while she dug for her wallet, and outside the rain had thinned to almost nothing. They loaded the trunk together, the plastic bags rustling, and she thought—not for the first time—that this was most of what a life was made of, and that she didn't mind at all.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping the last of the frost from the windshield with an old library card because the ice scraper had disappeared sometime in November.

"Bank first," she said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Then Costco, then the pharmacy, or my mother will call again about the prescription."

"Your mother calls anyway."

"She calls with a *reason* if I don't get the prescription."

At the credit union, Dev deposited a check from his uncle while Marisol stood at the counter filling out a change-of-address form they'd been meaning to handle since August. The teller asked if they wanted a joint account. They looked at each other. "Not today," Marisol said, and Dev laughed, and neither of them meant anything by it.

Costco on a Saturday was a slow-moving river. Dev pushed the cart and Marisol kept a running list in her phone: chicken thighs, the enormous bag of jasmine rice, paper towels, a rotisserie chicken to eat in the car because they had skipped breakfast. He wanted the salted caramel almonds. She let him have them on the condition that he not eat the entire container in one sitting, a condition they both knew was theoretical.

At the pharmacy Marisol waited in line while Dev walked next door to return a package to the shipping counter, a sweater that had arrived in a size that fit no known human. He came back with two coffees.

The car smelled like rotisserie chicken and rain. Marisol pulled a leg off and handed it to him at a red light.

"We forgot dish soap," she said.

"We have dish soap."

"We have half an inch of dish soap."

"We'll survive the week," Dev said, and turned toward home.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Deshawn was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with his thumb.

"Bank first," she said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Then Kroger. Then the hardware store if there's time."

"There's time. It's Saturday."

The bank line moved slowly. Deshawn deposited a check from a side job while Marisol scrolled her phone, reading him the grocery list she'd typed into her notes app at two in the morning when she couldn't sleep. Eggs, coffee, the good tortillas, dish soap, whatever fruit looked decent.

At Kroger they split up out of habit—she took produce and dairy, he took the middle aisles. She found him fifteen minutes later comparing two brands of pasta sauce like it mattered.

"Just get the one your mom uses."

"My mom makes it from scratch."

"Then get the cheap one."

He put both in the cart. At checkout she caught him sneaking a bag of gummy worms onto the belt and said nothing, which he understood as permission.

The hardware store took longer than expected. The bathroom faucet had been dripping since August, and the kid working the plumbing aisle was maybe nineteen and clearly guessing. Deshawn ended up on his phone watching a repair video while Marisol held two different washers up to the light, trying to remember what the old one looked like.

"This one," she said finally.

"You sure?"

"No."

They bought both.

In the car, the bag of gummy worms sat open between them. The heater smelled faintly of dust. Marisol changed the radio station twice and settled on nothing in particular, and Deshawn drove them home the long way, past the reservoir, because the light was doing something worth looking at over the water.


The rain had let up by the time Delia found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Marcus was already in the driveway, scraping a film of pollen off the windshield with the edge of a library card.

"You're going to snap that," she said.

"It's expired." He held it up, bent nearly in half, and shrugged.

They took his car because hers still had a check-engine light nobody had bothered to investigate. At the credit union drive-through, Delia deposited a check from her aunt while Marcus argued mildly with the pneumatic tube, which kept sucking the canister back before he'd finished loading it.

The dry cleaner was two doors down from the hardware store, so they split up. Marcus came back with a gallon of ceiling paint and a roll of blue tape; Delia came back with his good gray suit sheathed in plastic and an apology from the woman at the counter about a stain that hadn't come out entirely.

"It's under the arm," Delia said. "Nobody will see it."

"Everybody will see it. I gesture."

The grocery store was crowded in the way it always was on a Saturday, carts stalled in the produce aisle like traffic. Delia read the list off her phone. Marcus kept adding things that weren't on it — a jar of green olives, a bag of the almond cookies he liked, a bunch of tulips already going soft at the edges. She put the tulips back. He retrieved them when she turned toward the eggs, and she pretended not to notice.

They loaded the trunk in the parking lot, the cart wobbling on a bad wheel. On the drive home Marcus took the long way, past the reservoir, because the light was doing something worth looking at through the bare trees.

Neither of them mentioned the paint until they were carrying bags up the porch steps, and then only to decide it could wait until Sunday.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail on the counter. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a film of pollen off the windshield with the side of his hand.

"We need to hit the bank first," she said, climbing into the passenger seat. "They close at noon on Saturdays."

"Since when?"

"Since always. You just never go."

He backed out slowly, avoiding the recycling bin their neighbor had left half in the street. At the credit union, Marisol deposited a check from her mother—birthday money, three weeks late—while Dev waited in the car with the windows down, listening to a podcast about shipwrecks.

The hardware store came next. Dev needed a new washer for the kitchen faucet, which had been dripping since March. He held up two packages and asked Marisol which looked right. She had no idea, so she picked the one with the clearer picture on the front. He bought both.

The grocery store was crowded. They split the list without discussing it, the way they had for four years—Marisol took produce and dairy, Dev took the middle aisles and whatever was on sale. They found each other again near the frozen foods, comparing carts.

"You got the crunchy peanut butter," she said.

"You said either."

"I said either, but I meant creamy."

He put it back and got the creamy, then added a bag of frozen dumplings neither of them had planned on. She let it go.

At the checkout, the card reader rejected Dev's debit card twice before working. Outside, the sun had broken through, and the parking lot steamed faintly. They loaded the trunk together, Marisol handing bags, Dev arranging them so the eggs wouldn't shift.

"Dry cleaning," she remembered, buckling in.

"Monday," he said, and pulled out into traffic.


The rain had let up by the time Marisol found her keys under the mail pile, which meant Dev didn't have to dig out the umbrella that lived, permanently broken, in the hall closet.

"List," he said, holding out his hand.

"It's in my head."

"That's how we ended up with four jars of capers."

She handed him her phone with the notes app open, and he scrolled while she backed the Corolla out of the driveway, past the neighbor's recycling bin that had blown into their yard again. Dev made a mental note to walk it back over.

First stop was the bank, because Marisol's aunt had sent a birthday check and Marisol refused to use the mobile deposit feature, insisting she liked the teller, a woman named Rhonda who always asked about their dog. The dog had died in March. Marisol hadn't corrected her yet.

At the pharmacy, Dev picked up his allergy prescription and stood too long in the greeting card aisle. "Whose birthday?" Marisol asked.

"Nobody's. I just like reading them."

The grocery store was crowded for a Saturday. They split up out of habit — she took produce and dairy, he took the middle aisles — and reconvened near the frozen section, where Dev was holding two brands of waffles and looking genuinely troubled.

"The cheap ones," she said.

"The cheap ones are cardboard."

"Then get the other ones. Why is this a summit?"

He put both in the cart. She let it go.

At checkout, Marisol realized she'd forgotten coffee filters, which had been the entire original reason for the trip. Dev jogged back for them while she bagged. He returned slightly out of breath and holding, inexplicably, a bunch of yellow tulips.

"They were by the register," he said.

Outside, the sky had cleared. She carried the flowers. He carried everything else.


The rain had stopped by the time Priya found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Daniel was already at the door, holding her jacket out like a matador's cape, which he thought was funnier than she did.

"List," he said.

"In my phone."

"That's not a list. That's a threat."

They took his car because hers still had a check-engine light they'd been ignoring since February. The grocery store on Fulton had good produce and terrible parking, so Daniel dropped her at the entrance and circled twice before finding a spot near the cart return.

Inside, they fell into their usual pattern. Priya handled the perimeter—vegetables, dairy, the bakery counter where she always debated the sourdough and always bought it. Daniel disappeared into the aisles and returned with things that weren't on the list: a jar of pickled onions, a four-pack of some seltzer flavor that sounded like a mistake.

"We have pickled onions."

"We had pickled onions."

She let it go. At the register he bagged while she paid, and they argued mildly about whether the eggs went on top or in their own bag.

The pharmacy was next, two blocks down. Daniel waited in the car with the windows cracked while Priya picked up her prescription and, because she was already there, a birthday card for his mother. Then the hardware store, where they spent eleven minutes in the lightbulb aisle comparing wattages neither of them fully understood, and the dry cleaner, closed, which meant Saturday.

By the time they got home, the sun had come out, and the bags of groceries had shifted in the trunk so that a lemon had rolled somewhere unreachable.

"We'll find it eventually," Daniel said, hauling four bags at once so he wouldn't have to make a second trip.

They found it Thursday, under the spare tire, still perfectly good.


Saturday morning came in gray and mild, the kind of weather that made errands feel almost pleasant. Dana found her keys under a stack of unopened mail while Theo laced his boots by the door, already reciting the list from memory.

"Milk, coffee, that bread you like, the one with the seeds," he said.

"And detergent. We've been rationing detergent for a week like it's wartime."

They took his car because hers was overdue for an oil change—another errand, unlisted, that had been migrating from week to week for a month. At the pharmacy, Dana picked up her prescription while Theo wandered the seasonal aisle and came back holding a bag of discounted Halloween candy in November.

"It's eighty percent off," he said, as if that settled it.

"It's stale."

"It's chocolate. It doesn't go stale, it goes vintage."

She let him buy it.

The grocery store was crowded with people who'd had the same idea about beating the afternoon rush. Theo pushed the cart and Dana navigated, peeling off toward produce while he stood in the deli line holding a paper number. They found each other again by the yogurt, comparing notes.

"They were out of the seeded bread."

"Sourdough?"

"Got it. And I grabbed apples because they looked decent."

At the register they did the thing they always did—Dana unloading, Theo bagging, a wordless assembly line perfected over three years of shared kitchens and shared rent. He paid this time; she'd covered the last two.

The final stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter and a package of picture hooks, because Dana had been threatening for months to finally hang the framed print leaning against the hallway wall.

Home by noon. Theo carried the heavy bags; Dana got the door. They put everything away together, and he opened the Halloween candy before the milk was even in the fridge.


The Saturday list had been on the refrigerator since Wednesday, held there by a magnet shaped like a lemon. Dana pulled it down and read it aloud in the car while Marcus backed out of the driveway.

"Post office. Groceries. Return the drill to your brother. Oh, and the dry cleaning, if we have time."

"We have time," Marcus said. "We have nothing but time."

The post office was first because the line was shortest before eleven. Dana mailed her mother's birthday card, which was already four days late, and bought a book of stamps she would inevitably lose. Marcus waited by the door, reading the wanted posters with the seriousness of a man studying an exhibit.

At the grocery store they split the list, which they always claimed was more efficient and never was. Marcus took produce and dairy; Dana took the middle aisles. They found each other twice by accident near the frozen foods, and the second time Dana put a bag of tater tots in the cart without discussion, and Marcus put it back, and she put it in again, and it stayed.

"You always do this," he said.

"You always let me."

At checkout they argued pleasantly about whether they needed a fourth jar of peanut butter. They did not, but they bought it anyway.

Marcus's brother lived eight minutes away and met them in his garage, taking the drill back with a nod and offering coffee they declined. On the drive home Dana held the receipt up to the light and did the math out loud, and Marcus said the number was fine, and she agreed that it was fine, and neither of them mentioned the dry cleaning still sitting in the trunk.

They carried the bags in together, four in each hand, the plastic biting their fingers, and the afternoon opened up wide and unhurried in front of them.


Marisol found the keys under a stack of unopened mail, right where Danny always left them. "Ready?" she called toward the bedroom.

"Two minutes." He emerged pulling a sweatshirt over his head, hair still flattened on one side from the couch nap he'd insisted wasn't happening. "Did you write down the pharmacy thing?"

"It's on my phone. And the dry cleaning."

The Honda started on the second try, which Danny took as a personal victory. They drove with the windows cracked because the AC had been temperamental since August, and the October air smelled like somebody burning leaves illegally.

At the credit union, Marisol deposited a check from her aunt while Danny stayed in the car scrolling through a group text about someone's fantasy football disaster. She rapped on the window when she came back out and he unlocked it, reaching over to move his coffee cup from her seat.

The grocery store was the real project. They split the list the way they always did — he took produce and the meat counter, she took the middle aisles and dairy — and reconvened near the bread with two carts that shouldn't have been necessary.

"You got four avocados."

"They were three for five. So I got four."

"That's not how that works."

He put one back. She let him think it was his idea.

At checkout, the card reader rejected his debit card twice before working, and the teenager bagging shrugged apologetically. Outside, the sun had gone thin and orange. Danny loaded the trunk while Marisol returned the carts, jogging the last few feet the way she'd done since she was a kid.

They stopped at the pharmacy on the way home. Danny waited in the running car. When Marisol slid back in, she handed him a pack of gum she hadn't mentioned buying.

"You're okay," he said.

"I know," she said, and pulled out.


The rain had stopped by the time Dara found her keys under a pile of unopened mail. Marcus was already in the car, adjusting the seat back to where it belonged after she'd driven it last, a small ritual neither of them commented on anymore.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, eggs, that bread you like. And I added toilet paper because we're down to the last roll and I refuse to be the person who buys it at the gas station again."

The pharmacy came first. Marcus went in for his allergy prescription while Dara waited in the passenger seat, scrolling through work emails she'd promised herself she wouldn't check on a Saturday. He came back with the white paper bag and two packs of gum she hadn't asked for.

"They were by the register."

"They're always by the register."

At the grocery store they split up, which they'd learned was faster. Dara took produce and dairy; Marcus took the middle aisles and whatever else caught him. They met near the frozen section, where he'd already put three things in the cart that weren't on the list.

"The ice cream is on sale," he said, defensive before she said anything.

"I didn't say a word."

"You had a face."

At checkout, she bagged while he paid, and they loaded the trunk in the gray afternoon light. The last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter, which took eleven minutes of standing in an aisle comparing numbers on cardboard frames while Dara insisted they'd bought the wrong size last time and Marcus insisted they hadn't.

They had, it turned out. He conceded in the parking lot.

At home they carried everything in together, two trips, and Dara put away the cold things while Marcus started the coffee. The rain came back around four, and neither of them went out again.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of October weather that made the windows sweat. Dana found the grocery list on the refrigerator, held up by a magnet shaped like Oregon, and added *coffee filters* in her cramped handwriting.

"We need to hit the bank first," Marcus called from the bedroom. "That check's been sitting in my wallet for two weeks."

"Then the hardware store. The bathroom faucet is still dripping."

He appeared in the doorway, pulling a flannel over his shirt. "I said I'd fix it."

"You said that in August."

They took his car because hers needed an oil change, which had also been on a list somewhere. The bank line moved slowly. Marcus filled out the deposit slip against the counter while Dana scrolled through her phone, reading him a text from his mother about Thanksgiving.

"Tell her we'll figure it out," he said.

"You tell her. She's your mother."

At the hardware store, an employee named Ron spent eleven minutes explaining cartridge replacements for a faucet that Marcus wasn't entirely sure was the right brand. Dana wandered off and came back with a small pot of mums for the porch.

"That's not on the list."

"Neither is your third screwdriver."

The grocery store was crowded. They split up—Dana took produce and dairy, Marcus took the middle aisles—and reconvened near the frozen foods, comparing carts. He had bought the wrong yogurt. She had forgotten the coffee filters, despite writing them down herself. They laughed about it in a tired way and went back for both.

Loading the trunk in the parking lot, Marcus said, "We should get lunch somewhere."

"We have food. Literally right here. In bags."

"Yeah," he admitted.

They got tacos from the place near the laundromat, ate them in the car with the heat running, then drove home and put everything away together, one bag at a time.


The rain had stopped by the time Miriam found her keys under a stack of unopened mail. Dev was already in the car, engine running, defrosting the windshield with the heat cranked too high the way he always did.

"You have the list?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, eggs, coffee, that bread you like, and something for Thursday when your sister comes."

They stopped at the credit union first. Dev deposited a check from his cousin who'd finally paid him back for the plane tickets, and Miriam waited in the car, scrolling through a group text about someone's baby shower. When he came back he had two lollipops from the teller's bowl. He handed her the red one without asking, because he knew.

The grocery store was crowded for a Saturday morning. They fell into their usual pattern—Miriam took the produce and dairy, Dev took the middle aisles and whatever obscure spice a recipe required. They met near the frozen foods, where he was holding two bags of dumplings, trying to decide.

"Get both," she said. "They'll keep."

At checkout she remembered they were out of dish soap and jogged back for it while he loaded the belt. The total was more than either of them expected. He paid; she'd covered last week's.

The dry cleaner's was two doors down. Miriam ran in for his gray suit—there was a wedding in Sacramento next month—while Dev loaded the trunk and moved the car up.

On the way home they argued mildly about whether the leak under the bathroom sink needed a plumber or just a new washer. He thought he could fix it. She thought he'd thought that last time, too.

The lollipop lasted her until their exit. She stuck the wet stick in the cup holder, and he made a face, and neither of them said anything about it.


The Saturday List

Marisol found the list stuck to the refrigerator under a magnet shaped like Ohio, though neither of them had ever been there.

"Dry cleaning first," she said, pulling on her jacket. "They close at four on Saturdays."

Dev was already jingling the car keys. "Then Costco, then the bank?"

"The bank's closed. It's a holiday weekend." She checked her phone. "Post office too."

"So we're down to two errands." He held the door. "We could be back by noon."

The dry cleaner recognized them and had Dev's suit ready before they reached the counter. Marisol argued gently about a stain on a blouse the woman insisted had lifted; she paid anyway and let it go, tucking the receipt into her wallet.

At the grocery store, they split the list without discussion. Dev took produce and dairy. Marisol handled the middle aisles, texting him a photo of two pasta sauces with the message *which one*. He replied *left* and then, thirty seconds later, *actually right, the left one has too much sugar.*

They met near the frozen section. Dev had added a bag of frozen dumplings that wasn't on the list. Marisol looked at it, looked at him, and said nothing, which was its own kind of permission.

The line was long. A toddler ahead of them dropped a bag of shredded cheese and stared at it with real grief until Dev crouched and handed it back. The mother thanked him. Marisol loaded the belt.

In the parking lot the wind had picked up. Dev held the cart steady while Marisol transferred bags to the trunk, arranging them so the eggs sat upright against the spare tire cover.

"Car wash?" he asked.

She looked at the sky, gray and thickening. "Rain tomorrow."

"Good point."

They drove home with the radio low, discussing what to do with the dumplings, and whether the neighbor's fence had always leaned that way.


The rain had stopped by the time Nadia found her keys under a pile of unopened mail. Beau was already in the car, engine running, windshield wipers pushing the last of the drizzle into streaks.

"You forgot the list," he said when she climbed in.

"It's in my head."

"That's what you said last time and we came home with three onions and no coffee."

She reached over and turned the radio down, which she knew annoyed him, and they backed out of the driveway of the house they'd rented together for two years now — long enough that his mother had stopped asking about weddings, mostly.

The bank first. Beau went inside to deposit a check from a side job while Nadia waited in the car and answered a text from her sister. When he came back he had two lollipops from the teller's bowl and handed her the green one without asking, because she always took green.

The hardware store took longer than it should have. They stood in the plumbing aisle for eleven minutes debating whether the leaking faucet needed a whole new cartridge or just a washer, until an employee named Dale settled it for them. Nadia paid. Beau carried the bag.

At the grocery store they split up — she took produce and dairy, he took the frozen aisle and the beer — and met back at the deli counter, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops.

"You got the coffee," she said.

"I did."

"So it was in my head."

He laughed, and they got in line behind a woman with a screaming toddler and a full flatbed of dog food.

On the drive home Nadia held the cold gallon of milk between her feet because the bag had ripped. Beau took the long way, past the reservoir, for no particular reason except that the sun had come out.


Saturday morning came in gray and cold, the kind of March day that couldn't decide whether to rain. Maya found the grocery list on the counter where Dev had left it, his handwriting cramped in the margins with additions: *coffee filters, the good soap, batteries??*

"Batteries for what?" she asked, pulling on her jacket.

"The smoke detector's been chirping." He was hunting for the car keys, patting his pockets in that way he did when he already knew they were in the bowl by the door. "It woke me up at four."

"That's what that was. I thought you were dreaming."

They took her car because his needed an oil change, which was the second errand, sort of, if they got to it. The drive to the shopping center took eleven minutes. Dev controlled the radio, as was custom, and Maya complained about it, as was custom.

At the store they split the list without discussing it—he took produce and the middle aisles, she took dairy and the pharmacy counter, where she picked up her prescription and a birthday card for his sister. They met again near the frozen foods. He'd added a pint of ice cream and a bag of frozen dumplings that weren't on the list.

"We have dumplings."

"We had dumplings."

At checkout, she bagged while he paid, and they argued mildly about whether they still needed to stop at the hardware store or whether the batteries from the grocery store would do. The batteries would do. That left the dry cleaning, which was three doors down, and the library, where Dev returned a book eight days late and paid the fine in dimes.

By noon they were home. He carried the heavy bags; she carried the eggs. The smoke detector chirped once as they came through the door, and he groaned, and she laughed, and they started putting things away.


The rain had let up by the time Nadia found her keys under the mail pile. Theo was already in the driveway, scraping a stubborn film of pollen off the windshield with a squeegee he'd bought at a gas station two summers ago and never thrown away.

"Bank first," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Then Costco, then the pharmacy, then that place that fixes zippers."

"That's four things."

"Three and a half. The zipper place is next to the pharmacy."

He backed out slowly, the way he always did, because their neighbor's kid had a habit of leaving a scooter in the middle of the shared drive. At the credit union, Nadia deposited a check from her aunt while Theo waited in the car and answered a work email with one thumb. She came back with two lollipops from the teller's bowl and handed him the green one without asking, because he always took green.

Costco was a mistake on a Saturday. They split up—Theo to the back for chicken thighs and a case of seltzer, Nadia to the middle aisles for coffee, laundry detergent, and the enormous bag of frozen mango she liked to eat straight from the freezer. They found each other again by the books, which neither of them needed but both of them stopped at anyway.

"We have detergent," he said.

"We have half a bottle."

"That's detergent."

She put it in the cart. He didn't fight it.

The pharmacy took eleven minutes. The zipper place took four, and the woman behind the counter said the jacket would be ready Thursday. On the way home they got into a low, comfortable argument about whether to cook the chicken that night or freeze it, and settled on freezing half.

Theo carried the seltzer. Nadia held the door.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under yesterday's mail. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a film of wet leaves off the windshield with his forearm because the ice scraper had gone missing sometime in March.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, eggs, the good coffee, and whatever you wanted for that thing you're making Thursday."

"Chard. And anchovies."

"You know I'll pretend I don't taste them."

"You always taste them. That's the point."

The bank came first, because it closed at noon on Saturdays and Dev had a check from his uncle that had been sitting in his sock drawer for eleven days. Marisol waited in the car with the engine off, windows cracked, listening to a woman in the next spot argue with someone about a parking ticket. When Dev came back he had two lollipops from the teller's bowl and handed her the red one without asking.

At the hardware store they spent nine minutes deciding between two nearly identical furnace filters and then bought a third thing neither of them had come for, a small brass hook for the bathroom door.

The grocery store was crowded. Dev pushed the cart while Marisol went ahead, doubling back with things she'd forgotten to add to the list. He put back the cereal she grabbed by mistake, the one with the raisins, and she didn't notice until they were unloading at the register.

"You did that on purpose."

"I did it out of love."

In the parking lot the sun came out hard and sudden, steam rising off the asphalt. Marisol loaded bags into the trunk while Dev returned the cart, jogging the last few feet the way he always did, and she watched him and thought, not for the first time, that this was most of what a life was.


The rain had stopped by the time Marcus found his keys under the mail pile, which Dana said was a sign the universe wanted them to leave the house. He said the universe didn't care about their errands. She said that was exactly what someone who'd lost his keys would say.

They took her car because his had a check-engine light he'd been ignoring since March. Dana drove. Marcus held the list, which he'd written on the back of a receipt in handwriting even he couldn't read in places.

The pharmacy first. Marcus went in for his refill while Dana sat in the lot answering a text from her sister. When he came back he had the prescription and also a bag of gummy worms, which he set on the console like an offering.

"That wasn't on the list," she said.

"Nothing good ever is."

The bank was closed for a holiday neither of them had remembered, so they wrote that off and went to the hardware store instead, where they spent eleven minutes debating the merits of two nearly identical shower curtain liners before buying the cheaper one. Marcus carried it. Dana carried the light bulbs.

The grocery store was crowded in the way Saturday afternoons always are. They split up at the produce section — Dana taking the left side of the store, Marcus the right — and reunited near the dairy case, comparing what they'd found like scouts returning from opposite ends of a territory. He'd forgotten the eggs. She'd already gotten them.

In the checkout line Dana leaned against the cart handle and Marcus read the tabloid headlines out loud in a newscaster voice until she told him to stop, laughing, and he stopped.

They loaded the trunk together in the gray afternoon light. Halfway home Dana remembered the dry cleaning. They turned around.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under the mail pile. Devon was already in the car, engine running, defroster clearing a half-moon in the windshield.

"List?" he asked as she buckled in.

She held up her phone. "Milk, coffee, the good bread, chicken thighs. And your mother's birthday card."

"That's Wednesday, we have time."

"We had time last year too."

They stopped at the credit union first, where Devon deposited a check from the side job he'd finished in October — a deck rebuild for a neighbor two streets over. Marisol waited in the passenger seat and answered a text from her sister about Thanksgiving logistics. When Devon came back he handed her a lollipop from the teller's bowl, green apple, her least favorite. She ate it anyway.

At the pharmacy she picked up her prescription while he wandered the seasonal aisle, coming back with a birthday card that had a dog in sunglasses on it and no words inside.

"That's for your mother?"

"She likes dogs."

"She likes dogs."

The grocery store was crowded for a Sunday. They split the list without discussing it — she took produce and dairy, he took the meat counter and the coffee grinder, which he insisted on operating himself because the store setting was too coarse. They met by the bread, argued briefly about whether the sourdough was worth six dollars, bought it.

In the parking lot, loading bags into the trunk, Marisol realized they'd forgotten eggs. Devon went back in without complaining, which she noticed.

On the drive home he took the long way past the reservoir out of habit, and neither of them mentioned it. She put her feet up on the dash. He told her the deck money would cover the transmission thing.

"Or a weekend somewhere," she said.

"Or that," he agreed, and turned onto their street.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the apartment feel smaller than usual. Priya stood at the kitchen counter, adding items to the list on her phone while Dev searched for his keys.

"Check the bowl by the door," she said without looking up.

"Already did." He patted his jacket pockets, then found them in yesterday's jeans, draped over a chair. "Never mind."

They took his car because hers needed an oil change—another errand for another weekend. The first stop was the credit union, where Dev deposited a check from his freelance work while Priya waited in the passenger seat, scrolling through a group text about a friend's birthday dinner. When he came back, he handed her a lollipop from the teller window.

"They still do that?" she said.

"Apparently."

The dry cleaner was next, a narrow shop that always smelled faintly of steam and chemicals. Priya picked up two of Dev's shirts and the wool coat she'd spilled coffee on in November. The woman behind the counter asked how the coat had turned out, and Priya held it up to the light, satisfied.

At the grocery store, they split the list the way they always did—Dev took produce and the meat counter, Priya handled everything in the interior aisles. They found each other again near the frozen foods, comparing carts.

"You forgot the rice," she said.

"I didn't forget. They were out of the kind we get."

"There are other kinds."

"There are worse kinds."

She rolled her eyes and steered them toward the aisle anyway.

Loading the trunk in the parking lot, Dev mentioned the leaky faucet in the bathroom, and Priya said she'd call the landlord Monday. It started raining as they pulled out. Neither of them said much on the drive home, which felt fine, comfortable, like the rest of the morning.


Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzling, and Marcus was already at the door with the reusable bags looped over his shoulder when Priya finally came down the stairs, still braiding her hair.

"You've been standing there for ten minutes," she said.

"Eight. I counted."

They took her car because his needed an oil change, which was errand number three on the list Priya had written on the back of a takeout receipt. The windshield wipers squeaked on the low setting, and Marcus fiddled with them until Priya told him to leave it.

At the hardware store, they argued mildly over paint chips for the guest room. Marcus held up a swatch called Morning Fog. Priya held up one called Dove Gray. They looked identical under the fluorescent lights. They bought neither and left with furnace filters and a package of picture hangers instead.

The pharmacy line was long. Priya waited while Marcus went next door for coffee, and he came back with two cups and a package of the sour candy she pretended not to like. She took it without comment.

The grocery store was the main event. They split up by habit—Marcus took produce and dairy, Priya took the middle aisles—and reconvened near the frozen foods to compare carts. He had bought three kinds of apples. She had bought a rotisserie chicken because neither of them wanted to cook.

"We don't need three kinds of apples."

"They were on sale."

"That's not a reason."

At checkout, Marcus bagged while Priya paid, and they loaded the trunk in the parking lot as the drizzle finally stopped. The oil change would have to wait until Sunday; the shop closed at noon and it was already twelve-fifteen.

Driving home, Priya turned the radio to a station Marcus hated. He didn't say anything. Neither did she. The chicken warmed the back seat, and the whole car smelled like dinner.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a pile of unopened mail. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping the last of the frost from the windshield with a plastic scraper that had lost most of its handle.

"Bank first," she said, climbing in. "The deposit slip is in the glovebox. I think."

It wasn't. They found it in her coat pocket at the drive-through window, after the teller had already been waiting for a full minute. Dev apologized through the intercom while Marisol laughed silently in the passenger seat, hand over her mouth.

At the pharmacy, they split up—he went for his allergy medication, she wandered toward the seasonal aisle and came back with a discounted box of chocolates and no explanation. The cashier asked if they wanted to donate a dollar to something. They both said yes.

The grocery store was the real work. Dev pushed the cart while Marisol read from a list on her phone that she'd been adding to all week. Chicken thighs, not breasts. The good bread from the bakery counter, if there was any left. He kept drifting toward the chip aisle; she kept steering him back. In produce, they had a brief, quiet disagreement about whether they still had garlic at home. They bought garlic. They already had garlic.

The line at checkout moved slowly. Dev bagged while Marisol paid, and they loaded the trunk in the parking lot under a sky that had gone gray again.

One more stop—the dry cleaner, for the shirt he needed Thursday. Closed. A hand-lettered sign said back at two.

"Tomorrow," Marisol said.

"Tomorrow," Dev agreed.

They drove home with the heater roaring and a bag of oranges rolling around the back seat, and neither of them said anything for a while, which was fine.