On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the grocery list on her phone while Daniel searched the entryway for the reusable bags.

“They’re in the trunk,” she said.

“No, those are the insulated ones. We need the regular bags too.”

Maya opened the hall closet and found them beneath a folded umbrella. They had lived together in their Ohio townhouse for nearly two years, but ordinary objects still migrated to places neither of them remembered choosing.

They drove first to the post office, where Daniel mailed a return package while Maya bought stamps. Next came the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel compared prices on allergy medicine before deciding the store brand was good enough. In the parking lot, they checked the list again.

“Hardware store,” Daniel said. “Then groceries.”

At the hardware store, Maya found the correct size air filter by reading the faded number she had photographed that morning. Daniel chose a new kitchen faucet aerator after the old one had begun spraying sideways. They debated buying a houseplant near the register but agreed that the plants at home deserved their attention first.

The supermarket was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya selected produce, rejecting two bruised avocados before finding firm ones. He chose pasta and canned tomatoes; she added yogurt, coffee, and the cereal he always forgot to write down. At the meat counter, they changed their dinner plan when chicken thighs were on sale.

They split up briefly—Daniel for dish soap, Maya for frozen peas—then met near the checkout lanes. Each had picked up the same chocolate bar.

“One is enough,” Maya said.

Daniel placed his back on a shelf, though not without a sigh.

At home, they carried the bags inside together. Daniel replaced the air filter while Maya put away the cold food. Then they switched: she organized the pantry, and he started marinating the chicken.

By late afternoon, the errands were finished. Nothing remarkable had happened, but the refrigerator was full, the faucet no longer sprayed the wall, and the house felt ready for another week.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the grocery list on her phone while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We still have eggs,” he said, lifting the carton.

“Three eggs aren’t going to last the week.”

“Fair point.” He added eggs to the list, then grabbed the reusable bags from the pantry.

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. Their weekends often began this way: coffee, a quick inventory of the kitchen, and a debate over which errands could wait.

Daniel drove while Maya organized their route. First they stopped at the post office so she could mail a birthday package to her sister. While she waited in line, Daniel used the automated kiosk to buy stamps. Next they went to the pharmacy, where he picked up a prescription and she chose a new bottle of sunscreen after comparing labels for several minutes.

At the grocery store, they split the list. Maya headed toward produce while Daniel went for bread, milk, and eggs. They met near the frozen foods, where Daniel placed a pizza in the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“It’s our emergency dinner.”

“We already have two emergency dinners.”

“Then we’re extremely prepared.”

She laughed and kept the pizza.

At checkout, Maya loaded the conveyor belt while Daniel bagged the groceries, putting the tomatoes and peaches safely on top. On the way home, they stopped for gas. Maya cleaned old receipts and empty coffee cups from the car while Daniel filled the tank.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel put away the pantry items, and Maya arranged the vegetables in the refrigerator. She found the old bunch of cilantro wilted in the back drawer and held it up.

“We bought another one,” she said.

Daniel looked at the fresh cilantro on the counter. “Next week, we check the drawers.”

Maya added it to the shared list on her phone, knowing they would probably forget again.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Arizona. She added coffee, then called toward the bedroom, “Do we need laundry detergent?”

Evan opened the closet, inspected the nearly empty bottle, and called back, “Definitely.”

They had lived together in a small Ohio townhouse for two years, long enough to divide errands without discussing it. Maya checked the refrigerator while Evan gathered library books and the package they needed to return. By ten, they were in his hatchback, with Maya driving because Evan disliked the grocery store parking lot.

Their first stop was the post office. While Evan waited at the counter to mail the return, Maya bought stamps from the kiosk. Next, they drove to the library. Evan dropped the books into the slot, and Maya ran inside to pick up a novel she had reserved.

At the supermarket, they took turns steering the cart. Maya compared prices on canned tomatoes while Evan checked their shared list on his phone. He reminded her they needed rice; she reminded him that the freezer was already full and persuaded him to put back a family-sized box of waffles.

In the produce section, they debated whether the avocados would ripen by Tuesday. Evan chose two firm ones and one soft one for dinner. Maya added cilantro and limes, suggesting tacos. He agreed and went to find tortillas while she selected chicken.

Their last stop was the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Evan bought toothpaste and batteries. On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Evan cleaned the windshield and carried their empty coffee cups to the trash.

Back at the townhouse, they brought everything inside in two trips. Evan put away the pantry items while Maya arranged the vegetables in the refrigerator. They realized they had forgotten dish soap.

“Next time,” Maya said.

Evan held up the nearly full bottle by the sink. “We’re fine.”

She laughed, and together they started making lunch.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Arizona. She added coffee filters and held it up for Daniel, who was tying his shoes by the front door.

“Anything else?”

“Dish soap,” he said. “And we should stop by the pharmacy. My prescription’s ready.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, long enough to divide errands without discussing every detail. Maya usually tracked what was running low; Daniel remembered the things that had to happen outside the house.

They drove to the supermarket first. The parking lot was crowded, so Daniel dropped Maya near the entrance, then found a space beside the cart return. Inside, she chose produce while he compared prices on chicken breasts. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel placed a carton of eggs in the cart.

“Check them,” Maya said.

He opened the carton. One egg was cracked. He exchanged it while she picked out yogurt.

At checkout, Maya unloaded the cart and Daniel bagged, separating the frozen food from the cleaning supplies. They split the total through their shared household account, then loaded the trunk together.

Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Daniel went inside for his prescription while Maya crossed the strip mall to mail a birthday card to her sister. He was waiting outside when she returned, reading the receipt with a puzzled expression.

“They charged the old insurance,” he said.

Maya waited with the groceries while he went back in and got it corrected.

Their final stop was the hardware store for furnace filters and a replacement bulb for the porch light. Daniel found the filters; Maya checked the bulb’s base against a photo on her phone.

By noon, they were home. Daniel carried in the heavy bags, and Maya put away the cold items first. Then they worked side by side in the kitchen, talking about lunch and whether the rain would hold off long enough for a walk. The errands had taken most of the morning, but nothing had been forgotten.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet on the refrigerator, exactly where Daniel had said he’d left it. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for almost two years, long enough to develop a routine but not long enough to stop forgetting toothpaste.

Daniel was in the driveway checking the air in one of the car’s tires. Maya came out carrying two reusable bags and handed him the list.

“You forgot coffee,” she said.

“I thought we had some.”

“We have enough for tomorrow, if neither of us wants a second cup.”

He added coffee to the list, and they drove first to the pharmacy. While Maya picked up a prescription and compared prices on allergy medicine, Daniel found toothpaste, batteries, and the particular hand soap she liked. At the register, she reminded him they also needed stamps, so he walked to the customer-service counter while she paid.

Their next stop was the post office, where Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. Maya waited by the wall of P.O. boxes, checking the grocery store’s app for coupons. Back in the car, she announced that chicken thighs were on sale. Daniel suggested tacos for dinner, and they adjusted the list.

The supermarket was crowded. Daniel steered the cart while Maya chose produce, rejecting two bruised avocados before finding three good ones. In the dairy aisle, he grabbed oat milk and yogurt; she doubled back for eggs. They split up briefly when Daniel remembered dishwasher detergent, then met near the checkout with nearly everything they needed—and a bag of tortilla chips neither had written down.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield and threw away old receipts from the cup holder.

Back at the duplex, they carried the groceries in together. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the mail. By noon, the errands were finished, the refrigerator was full, and they were arguing mildly about who had chosen the oversized bag of chips.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, lifting the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which is more urgent.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. Their weekends often began this way: chores first, then whatever they actually wanted to do.

Daniel drove, and Maya read the list from her phone. Their first stop was the post office, where she mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps and filled out a change-of-address form for a former tenant whose mail still appeared at their house.

Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya wandered to the household aisle for allergy medicine and dish soap. At the register, she reminded him to use the coupon saved on his phone. He found it after a minute of tapping through old emails, saving them eight dollars.

The grocery store was crowded. They split up, with Maya choosing vegetables and bread while Daniel collected milk, pasta, and coffee. They met near the frozen foods.

“Did you get eggs?” she asked.

Daniel looked into the cart and sighed. “I got distracted by waffles.”

Maya laughed and went back with him. At the egg case, they compared prices and checked for cracked shells before adding a carton.

Their last stop was the hardware store for furnace filters and a replacement bulb for the porch light. Daniel measured the filters against a photo on his phone, while Maya found the correct bulb and grabbed a small bag of birdseed for the feeder outside their window.

By the time they returned home, the trunk was full and both were hungry. They carried everything inside together, making two trips. Maya put away the groceries while Daniel replaced the porch bulb.

When he came back in, she had started grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Productive morning,” he said.

“Almost,” Maya replied, pointing at the laundry basket.

Daniel glanced at it, then at the sandwiches. “After lunch.”

She agreed.


On Saturday morning, Elena found Marcus in the kitchen rinsing out the travel mugs. They had lived together for almost two years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and had developed a loose weekend routine: coffee first, errands second, everything else later.

Elena checked the list on her phone while Marcus carried reusable bags to the car. They needed groceries, lightbulbs for the hallway, and a padded envelope to mail his sister’s birthday gift. Before leaving, Elena remembered the library books on the entry table, so Marcus tucked them under his arm.

Their first stop was the post office. While Marcus waited in line, Elena filled out the address label. He chose the cheapest tracked shipping option, and she took a photo of the receipt to send his sister. At the library, they dropped the books through the return slot and spent a few minutes browsing the new releases. Elena checked out a mystery novel; Marcus borrowed a cookbook after pointing out a recipe for mushroom tacos.

At the hardware store, they compared two brands of LED bulbs. Marcus wanted the warmer color, while Elena checked the fixtures’ wattage limits. They bought a four-pack and a small container of wall putty for a dent they had been ignoring since moving in.

The grocery store was crowded. Elena steered the cart while Marcus crossed items off the list. They chose apples, spinach, rice, coffee, and chicken, then debated whether they already had soy sauce. Marcus was certain they did. Elena was equally certain the bottle was nearly empty, so they bought one anyway.

At checkout, Marcus bagged the groceries while Elena paid from their shared household account. Rain had started by the time they reached the parking lot. They loaded the trunk quickly, laughing when one paper receipt stuck to Marcus’s wet sleeve.

On the drive home, they decided to make the mushroom tacos for dinner. The errands had taken most of the afternoon, but with the back seat full and every item crossed off, neither of them minded.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet on the refrigerator, written in two different inks. Her neat blue handwriting covered the basics—milk, rice, spinach, coffee—while Daniel had added tortilla chips and “something sweet” in black marker.

They had lived together for three years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and their errands had settled into a familiar rhythm. Daniel carried the reusable bags to the car while Maya checked that they had the library books and the package she needed to return.

Their first stop was the post office. Maya waited in line to mail the package while Daniel used the self-service kiosk to buy stamps. Afterward, they drove to the library, where Daniel dropped the books into the return slot. Maya went inside to pick up a novel she had reserved, and he waited near the entrance, reading flyers for neighborhood events.

At the pharmacy, Daniel collected a prescription while Maya compared prices on allergy medicine. They debated whether the store-brand tablets worked as well as the name-brand ones, then chose the cheaper box.

The supermarket was crowded with families and college students. Daniel steered the cart, and Maya read from the list. He selected avocados, gently pressing each one, while she inspected a bag of onions for soft spots. In the cereal aisle, they disagreed briefly over shelf space at home.

“We already have two open boxes,” Maya said.

“One of them is basically dust,” Daniel replied.

They compromised on oatmeal.

At checkout, Maya noticed they had forgotten dish soap. Daniel jogged back for it while she unloaded the cart. He returned with the soap and a small package of brownies, holding it up as his interpretation of “something sweet.”

Back home, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Maya put away the refrigerated food while Daniel sorted the pantry items. By noon, the errands were finished, the gas tank was full, and the refrigerator looked less bare. They made sandwiches, split a brownie, and sat at the kitchen table discussing what to cook for dinner.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Texas, though neither she nor Ben could remember where it had come from. They had lived together for three years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and their refrigerator had collected souvenirs from places they had never visited.

“We need more than coffee and cereal,” she said, scanning the list.

Ben added dish soap and cat litter while Maya checked the pantry. By ten, they were in his aging Honda, reusable bags piled in the back seat. Their first stop was the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Ben bought batteries for the smoke detector. While they waited, he tested a pair of reading glasses from the display and looked at her solemnly over the frames.

“Distinguished,” Maya said.

“Devastatingly.”

At the post office, Ben mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona while Maya filled out a change-of-address form for a bill that still went to her old apartment. Then they drove to the hardware store for an air filter. Ben held up two nearly identical sizes, and Maya pulled up a photo of the furnace label on her phone.

“This is why we take pictures,” she said.

“This is why I bring you,” he replied.

The supermarket was crowded with families and carts parked sideways in the aisles. Maya chose produce while Ben compared prices on canned tomatoes. They debated whether they would really cook the ambitious lentil recipe Maya had saved, then bought the ingredients anyway. Ben remembered the cat food just before checkout; Maya remembered ice cream just after, and went back for it while he unloaded the cart.

On the drive home, they stopped for gas and split a convenience-store coffee. Rain began tapping the windshield.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Ben replaced the air filter while Maya put away groceries. Later, they stood together in the kitchen, looking at the lentils.

“Takeout?” Ben asked.

Maya smiled and opened the bag. “Tomorrow. Tonight we’re cooking.”


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to know that grocery shopping without a plan usually ended with three kinds of chips and no coffee.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said.

“And dish soap,” Maya added. “Also, your prescription is ready.”

He typed it into his phone while she searched the junk drawer for a coupon. By ten, they were in Maya’s hatchback, reusable bags piled in the back seat.

Their first stop was the pharmacy. Daniel went inside for his prescription while Maya used the ATM in the lobby. When he returned, he handed her a bottle of water he had bought because she had forgotten hers.

At the grocery store, they divided the list. Maya chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Daniel found cereal, pasta, and the specific coffee they both liked. They met near the frozen foods, where Daniel held up two pizzas.

“We only need one,” Maya said.

“One is for an emergency.”

“What emergency?”

“Tuesday.”

She laughed and put both in the cart.

At checkout, they realized the coupon was for a different brand of detergent. Maya started to set it aside, but Daniel pulled out his phone and found the store’s digital discount. They split the total using their shared household account.

Afterward, they stopped at the hardware store for furnace filters and a replacement bulb for the porch light. Daniel checked the filter size twice; Maya remembered they also needed batteries for the smoke detector.

Their last errand was dropping a package at the post office kiosk. By the time they got home, light rain had begun. They carried the bags in together, making two hurried trips from the car.

Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya washed the fruit. Then he changed the porch bulb, and she replaced the smoke detector batteries. With everything done, they heated one of the pizzas for lunch.

“Tuesday’s emergency?” Maya asked.

Daniel looked at the remaining box in the freezer. “Still covered.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Texas. She added coffee, then called toward the hallway, “Do we need laundry detergent?”

Evan opened the closet and lifted the nearly empty bottle. “Definitely. And lightbulbs. The lamp in the bedroom is out again.”

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for almost two years, long enough to develop an easy rhythm around errands. Maya drove because Evan had driven all week for work. He carried the reusable bags and adjusted the passenger-side mirror before they pulled away.

Their first stop was the post office. Evan waited in line to mail a birthday package to his sister while Maya filled out a change-of-address form for a freelance client who kept sending checks to her old apartment. Afterward, they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Evan bought toothpaste, comparing prices until she reminded him they had frozen food to buy later.

At the supermarket, they split the list without separating. Maya chose vegetables while Evan inspected avocados, rejecting three before finding two that felt right. They debated whether they would actually cook the salmon on Tuesday.

“We will if you thaw it,” Maya said.

“We will if you don’t order tacos,” he replied.

They bought it anyway, along with rice, cereal, coffee, detergent, and a box of cookies neither had written down. At checkout, Evan bagged while Maya paid from their shared household account.

Their final stop was the hardware store. They stood beneath a wall of lightbulbs, trying to remember whether the bedroom lamp took warm white or daylight.

“Warm white,” Maya decided. “Daylight makes the room look like a dentist’s office.”

Back home, Evan carried in the heavy bags while Maya put away the cold items. He changed the bulb, and she started a load of laundry. By early afternoon, everything was done. They made sandwiches, opened the unplanned cookies, and sat together at the kitchen table, pleased by the small satisfaction of a stocked refrigerator and an empty list.


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel in the kitchen, studying the nearly empty refrigerator as if it might offer a solution.

“We have mustard, half an onion, and three eggs,” he said.

Maya added milk to the grocery list on her phone. “And no coffee.”

That settled the matter. They pulled on jackets, locked their rented duplex, and drove to the shopping center across town. Maya drove while Daniel read the list aloud, adding trash bags after remembering they had used the last one.

Their first stop was the post office. Daniel waited in line to mail a birthday package to his sister in Oregon while Maya filled out a change-of-address form they had been putting off since moving in together two months earlier. When the clerk handed Daniel a receipt, he tucked it into his wallet and carried the empty tape dispenser back to the car for recycling.

Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel compared prices on allergy medicine. At the checkout, Maya reminded him they also needed dish soap, so he jogged back to the household aisle while she paid.

The grocery store was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart, steering around families and a display of canned tomatoes, while Maya checked items off her list. They debated which pasta sauce to buy, agreed on the cheaper one, and split up briefly—Daniel went for frozen vegetables and Maya chose apples and spinach. At the meat counter, they decided to skip chicken and make lentil soup instead.

By the time they reached the register, the cart held more than they had planned but nothing extravagant. Daniel loaded the bags while Maya returned the cart.

Back home, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the produce, and Daniel started the soup, chopping the half onion that had begun the morning’s errands. When Maya finally opened the new coffee, she smiled.

“At least tomorrow morning is handled.”

Daniel nodded toward the simmering pot. “And dinner, too.”


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a grocery list while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re almost out of eggs,” he said, lifting the carton. “And the milk expires tomorrow.”

Maya added both to the list, along with rice, spinach, coffee, and cat food. They had lived together in a small townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, and their weekend errands had settled into an easy routine.

Daniel drove while Maya reviewed the stops on her phone. First, they went to the post office, where she mailed a birthday package to her sister. While she waited in line, Daniel bought a sheet of stamps and checked their mailbox. Next, they stopped at the bank so he could deposit a check from a freelance repair job. Maya stayed in the car and answered a message from their landlord about a scheduled furnace inspection.

At the pharmacy, Daniel picked up allergy medicine, and Maya found the shampoo she liked on sale. They compared prices for a few minutes before adding toothpaste and bandages to the basket.

Their final stop was the grocery store. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya crossed items off the list. He chose vegetables for a stir-fry, and she went to the deli counter for turkey and cheese. In the cereal aisle, they disagreed briefly over whether they needed another box.

“We have half a box,” Daniel said.

“Half a box of the kind you don’t eat,” Maya replied.

He laughed and put her favorite cereal in the cart.

At checkout, they split the cost as usual. Daniel loaded the bags into the trunk while Maya returned the cart. On the way home, they stopped for coffee and shared a blueberry muffin in the parking lot.

Back at the townhouse, they carried everything inside together. Maya put away the pantry items while Daniel arranged the refrigerator. By early afternoon, the errands were finished, the kitchen was stocked, and they had the rest of the weekend to themselves.


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel standing in front of the refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs as if it had personally disappointed him.

“We’re also out of milk,” he said.

“And coffee,” Maya added from the kitchen table. “Which explains why this feels like an emergency.”

They had lived together for two years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and their weekend errands usually followed the same loop: grocery store, pharmacy, gas station, and whatever extra stop had accumulated during the week.

Daniel drove while Maya read from the list on her phone. At the pharmacy, he picked up a prescription, and she bought toothpaste and a birthday card for her sister. In the parking lot, Maya addressed the envelope against the dashboard while Daniel searched the center console for a stamp.

“You said we had some,” she reminded him.

“I said I thought we had some.”

They stopped at the post office instead.

At the grocery store, Daniel pushed the cart while Maya compared prices. He chose vegetables for a stir-fry; she added rice, chicken, and a bottle of sauce. They debated whether they needed paper towels, then remembered the nearly empty roll at home and bought the larger package. When Daniel reached for an expensive bag of coffee, Maya raised an eyebrow.

“It’s on sale,” he said.

“It’s still twelve dollars.”

They compromised on a smaller bag.

After loading the groceries into the trunk, Maya returned the cart while Daniel checked the tire pressure at the gas station next door. One tire was low, so she held his phone flashlight while he fed quarters into the air pump and crouched beside the wheel.

By the time they got home, it had begun to rain. They carried everything inside in two hurried trips. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the rest into cabinets.

The errands had taken nearly three hours, longer than either expected. Still, when Daniel started the coffee and Maya opened the birthday card to write a note, the house felt settled again—stocked, organized, and ready for another week.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called toward the hallway, “We’re out of dish soap too.”

Evan emerged carrying two reusable bags and wearing the jacket he always claimed was warm enough. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for three years, long enough that errands had developed their own rhythm. Maya drove; Evan managed the list and reminded her which parking lot entrances were impossible on weekends.

Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her niece. While she waited at the counter, Evan bought stamps and checked the box they shared for bills. Next, they crossed town to the pharmacy. Evan picked up a prescription, and Maya wandered the seasonal aisle, returning with a discounted box of tea.

“You said we didn’t need anything extra,” he said.

“It’s six dollars off.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Still, he put it in the basket.

At the supermarket, they divided the list without discussing it. Maya chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Evan collected cereal, pasta, and the correct brand of cat litter. They met near the dairy case, where he held up two cartons of eggs.

“Large or extra-large?”

“Whichever isn’t cracked.”

They checked both.

At the register, Maya unloaded the cart while Evan bagged, placing the bread safely on top and separating the frozen food. Outside, cold rain had started. They hurried across the lot, laughing when one bag tipped and a lemon rolled beneath the car. Maya crouched on one side while Evan reached from the other, finally trapping it with his shoe.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Evan pumped while Maya updated their shared expense app. By noon, the groceries were put away, the prescription sat beside the sink, and the cat was investigating the new litter bag.

Maya made coffee. Evan opened the discounted tea anyway, and they stood together in the kitchen, pleased that the ordinary work of the day was done.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called toward the bedroom, “We’re almost out of detergent, too.”

Evan appeared in the hallway pulling on a sweatshirt. “Already on the list,” he said, tapping the paper. “And we need stamps.”

They had lived together for three years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. Their weekends often began this way: one of them making a list, the other checking the weather and finding the reusable bags.

Evan drove, while Maya handled the route. First, they stopped at the post office, where she mailed a birthday card to her grandmother and he bought a book of stamps. Next came the pharmacy. Evan picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine before choosing the generic brand.

At the grocery store, they divided the list without discussing it. Maya headed for produce while Evan went to the deli. They met near the dairy case, where he held up two cartons of eggs.

“Large or extra-large?”

“Whichever is cheaper.”

“They’re the same price.”

“Then extra-large. More egg.”

He nodded as if she had settled an important debate.

They bought chicken, rice, spinach, yogurt, coffee, detergent, and ingredients for tacos. Evan added a bag of tortilla chips. Maya put salsa in the cart to match. At checkout, she unloaded groceries while he arranged the bags so the bread would not be crushed.

Their final stop was the gas station. Maya cleaned the windshield while Evan filled the tank, both of them shivering in the cold wind.

Back home, they carried everything inside in two trips. Evan put away the pantry items, and Maya stored the produce. When they finished, it was nearly noon.

“Tacos tonight?” he asked.

Maya looked at the full refrigerator and smiled. “Only if you chop the onions.”

“Deal.”

They made sandwiches for lunch and sat at the kitchen table, satisfied that the ordinary work of the weekend was already done.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small Ohio townhouse for three years, long enough to know that shopping without a plan usually ended with too many snacks and no dinner ingredients.

“We’re out of milk,” Daniel said, lifting the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which is more urgent.”

They left just before ten, taking Daniel’s car because Maya’s needed gas and had been making an unsettling squeak. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps and filled out a change-of-address form for a medical bill that kept going to his old apartment.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine. At the checkout, she remembered they needed batteries for the smoke detector, so Daniel went back for a pack while she paid.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya steered the cart, reading from her phone, while Daniel selected produce. He rejected two bruised avocados before finding three firm ones.

“Those won’t be ready until Thursday,” Maya said.

“That’s when we’re making tacos.”

They divided the rest of the list without discussing it. Maya chose yogurt, pasta, and canned tomatoes; Daniel found chicken, rice, and the coffee they both liked. They met near the frozen foods, where he had added ice cream to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” she said.

“Neither were the flowers.”

He pointed to a small bunch of yellow tulips tucked beside the bread. Maya smiled and kept pushing.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Daniel filled Maya’s tank while she cleaned the windshield and listened for the squeak, which didn’t appear. Back at the townhouse, they carried the bags inside together. Daniel put away the groceries while Maya replaced the smoke-detector batteries. By noon, the errands were finished, the coffee was brewing, and the tulips stood in a water glass on the kitchen table.


On Saturday morning, Lena found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called down the hallway to Marcus, who was searching for his shoes.

“We’re out of dish soap too,” he said.

“You used the last of it,” Lena replied, writing it down.

They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years. Their weekends often began this way: a list, reusable bags, and a loose plan that grew longer once they left the house.

Marcus drove while Lena checked the pharmacy hours on her phone. Their first stop was the post office, where Marcus mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Lena bought stamps from the machine and replaced the peeling label on their mailbox key.

Next, they went to the bank. Lena deposited a check from a freelance project, and Marcus used the ATM. In the parking lot, they compared balances and agreed they could finally replace the broken lamp in the living room, though not that day.

At the pharmacy, Marcus picked up a prescription while Lena browsed the greeting cards. She chose one for their neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, who had recently had knee surgery. Marcus found her near the register and suggested adding a small bag of chocolates.

Their last stop was the supermarket. Lena pushed the cart, and Marcus crossed items off the list. They debated pasta sauce, remembered onions only after reaching the frozen aisle, and split up briefly—Marcus for coffee, Lena for laundry detergent. At checkout, he bagged the groceries while she paid.

On the drive home, rain began tapping against the windshield. Marcus carried the heavy bags inside, and Lena brought in the eggs and pharmacy sack. They put everything away together, then stood in the kitchen, tired and hungry.

“We forgot lunch,” Marcus said.

Lena opened the new loaf of bread. “Grilled cheese?”

He took out the skillet. “I’ll cook if you wash.”

She held up the dish soap, and they both laughed.


On Saturday morning, Lena found the grocery list under a stack of mail on the kitchen counter. She added coffee filters and held it up for Marcus to see.

“Anything else?”

“Dish soap,” he said, tying his shoes by the front door. “And we should return that router before the deadline.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and weekends often began this way: errands first, then whatever was left of the day.

Marcus drove while Lena checked their route on her phone. Their first stop was the post office, where he carried the boxed router inside and she waited in line to buy stamps. From there, they went to the pharmacy. Lena picked up a prescription while Marcus compared prices on allergy medicine, eventually choosing the generic bottle.

At the grocery store, they divided the list without formally discussing it. Lena headed toward produce, selecting apples and a bag of spinach, while Marcus went to the deli counter. They met near the dairy cases, where he placed sliced turkey and cheese in the cart.

“Did you get onions?” he asked.

“They looked bad,” Lena said. “We can stop at the farmers market.”

Marcus glanced at the crowded aisles, then nodded. “Fine, but we’re getting lunch there.”

At checkout, Lena used the store app for coupons while Marcus loaded the belt and bagged the groceries. They saved eleven dollars, which Lena announced as if they had won something.

The farmers market was only ten minutes away. Marcus bought onions from a local vendor, and Lena chose a loaf of sourdough. They shared a paper tray of pierogi at a picnic table, discussing whether to invite friends over the following weekend.

Back home, Marcus carried in the heavy bags while Lena unlocked the door and cleared space in the refrigerator. They put everything away together, mildly disagreeing about where the bread belonged. By early afternoon, the errands were finished, and the rest of Saturday felt open.


Maya locked the front door while Daniel carried two empty reusable bags down the steps. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for nearly three years, long enough that Saturday errands had developed their own familiar rhythm.

In the car, Maya read from the list on her phone. “Groceries, pharmacy, post office, and gas.”

“And coffee,” Daniel added.

“Coffee is not an errand.”

“It will improve the errands.”

They stopped at a drive-through before heading to the supermarket. Daniel drove while Maya updated the grocery list, adding dish soap and removing tomatoes after remembering they still had several at home.

Inside the store, they split up briefly. Maya went to produce while Daniel found rice, canned beans, and the cereal they both liked. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel held up two cartons of eggs.

“Which ones?”

“The cheaper ones,” Maya said, checking the price. “We’re not emotionally attached to eggs.”

At the checkout, they bagged the groceries together, arranging the frozen food in one bag so it would be easy to unpack first.

Next, they visited the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription while Daniel browsed the seasonal aisle and returned with a pack of batteries they had forgotten they needed. At the post office, he mailed a birthday card to his mother, and Maya dropped a return package into the parcel bin.

Their last stop was the gas station. While Daniel filled the tank, Maya cleared old receipts from the center console and carried them to the trash. On the way home, they discussed dinner and agreed on vegetable stir-fry, mostly because they had bought too much broccoli.

Back at the duplex, Daniel carried in the heavier bags. Maya put away the cold items and handed him containers for the pantry. Within ten minutes, everything was stored, the errands were crossed off, and the reusable bags were folded by the door.

Daniel looked at the clock. “Still enough Saturday left.”

Maya opened the cereal box. “That was the plan.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs.

“We’re officially out of breakfast,” he said.

They had lived together for two years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and their grocery habits had settled into a familiar rhythm. Maya kept the list on her phone; Daniel remembered the things she forgot to add.

They left just before ten. Maya drove while Daniel read the list aloud at a red light: eggs, coffee, rice, spinach, chicken, toothpaste, cat litter.

“And something for dinner,” Maya added.

At the supermarket, they split up briefly. Daniel headed toward produce while Maya compared prices on coffee. They met near the dairy case, where he placed a bag of apples in the cart.

“Those are the expensive ones,” she said.

“They’re also the ones you actually eat.”

She considered this, then nodded. Together they chose ingredients for tacos, debating between flour and corn tortillas before buying both. Daniel loaded the heavier bags into the trunk while Maya returned the cart.

Their next stop was the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel bought toothpaste and a birthday card for his sister. In the parking lot, they sat in the car for a minute while he wrote a quick message inside the card, using the steering wheel as a desk.

They dropped the card at the post office, then drove to a gas station. While Maya filled the tank, Daniel went inside and returned with two bottles of water and a packet of peanut butter crackers.

“You said we’d get lunch,” she reminded him.

“This is preventive maintenance,” he said.

Back home, they carried the groceries in together, each making two trips. Daniel cleaned out the refrigerator while Maya put away the pantry items. By noon, the errands were done, the gas tank was full, and the cat litter had been replaced.

Maya set the tortillas on the counter. “Tacos tonight?”

Daniel closed the refrigerator. “Only if we use the expensive apples for lunch.”

She laughed and handed him one.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the grocery list on her phone while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, lifting the empty carton.

“They’re already on the list,” Maya replied. “Can you see if we need milk?”

Daniel shook the carton, then added milk to the shared list. They had lived together in a rented townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to divide errands without discussing every detail but not long enough to stop teasing each other about forgotten items.

They left just before ten. Maya drove while Daniel read off their stops: the post office, the pharmacy, the hardware store, and finally the supermarket. At the post office, Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona while Daniel bought stamps. At the pharmacy, he picked up a prescription, and she compared prices on allergy medicine.

The hardware store took longer than expected. They needed a new kitchen faucet aerator, but neither was sure which size would fit. Daniel searched through photos on his phone while Maya found an employee and explained the problem. Together, they settled on a small universal kit.

By the time they reached the supermarket, the parking lot was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya checked items off the list. He chose vegetables for a stir-fry; she picked out coffee and bread. They debated whether to buy ice cream, then compromised on one pint of salted caramel.

At checkout, Maya used a coupon while Daniel packed the reusable bags. On the drive home, they stopped for gas, switching places so Daniel could drive the last few miles.

Back at the townhouse, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the pantry items while Daniel replaced the aerator. When he turned on the faucet, the water came out in a smooth stream instead of spraying sideways.

“Successful mission,” he said.

Maya handed him the ice cream. “Mostly because I remembered the coupon.”

He laughed and reached for two spoons.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter in their rented townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, checking the refrigerator while Daniel added items to a grocery list on his phone. They had lived together for two years, long enough to know that “just a few things” could easily become a full cart.

“We’re out of eggs,” Maya said.

“And coffee,” Daniel replied, holding up the nearly empty bag. “That feels more urgent.”

They left around ten, taking Maya’s hatchback because Daniel’s truck was low on gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Maya bought stamps from the kiosk and dropped two utility payments into the outgoing-mail slot.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel wandered to the household aisle for toothpaste and laundry detergent. He returned carrying a discounted bag of chocolate.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“It’s medicinal,” he told her, and she laughed before placing it in the basket.

At the grocery store, they divided the work without discussing it. Maya chose produce and compared prices on chicken, while Daniel found cereal, canned tomatoes, and the coffee he liked. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel had forgotten which kind of yogurt Maya wanted. She pointed to the plain Greek yogurt, then noticed he had selected the wrong milk.

“Two percent,” she reminded him.

“I knew that,” he said, trading the carton.

Before heading home, they stopped at a gas station. Daniel filled the hatchback while Maya cleaned a smear of road salt from the windshield. By then, the back seat was crowded with reusable bags, a pharmacy sack, and a roll of paper towels.

At home, they carried everything inside together. Daniel put away the groceries while Maya started a load of laundry. When she found the chocolate hidden behind the cereal, she broke off two squares and handed him one.

Their errands had taken nearly three hours, but the refrigerator was full, the bills were mailed, and neither of them had to go out again.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small Ohio townhouse for three years, long enough to know that grocery shopping without a plan usually ended with too many snacks and no dinner ingredients.

“We need milk,” Daniel said, holding up the nearly empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Definitely coffee.”

They left just before ten, taking Daniel’s hatchback because Maya’s car was low on gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel filled out a change-of-address card for a former tenant whose mail still occasionally arrived at their house. The clerk told him to leave the envelopes in the marked bin next time.

From there, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine before choosing the store brand. At the checkout, she remembered they needed batteries for the smoke detector, so Daniel went back for a pack while she paid.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya pushed the cart, and Daniel read from the list on his phone. They chose vegetables for stir-fry, chicken, rice, yogurt, and enough lunch supplies for the workweek. Daniel suggested frozen pizza for Sunday night. Maya agreed, provided he picked one with vegetables.

Near the register, they realized they had forgotten coffee. Daniel hurried back while Maya unloaded the cart. He returned carrying two bags because their usual brand was on sale.

Their final stop was the gas station. Maya filled a portable can for the lawn mower while Daniel topped off the car. By the time they reached home, it was nearly noon.

They carried the bags inside together, making two trips. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the mail and started a pot of coffee. Nothing about the morning had been remarkable, but as they sat at the kitchen table with fresh mugs, both felt satisfied by how easily they had handled it all together.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called toward the hallway, “We’re out of detergent too.”

Evan emerged carrying two library books and a padded envelope. “Then we’re making three stops. Library, post office, grocery store.”

They had lived together for two years in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, long enough to develop a weekend rhythm. Maya checked the refrigerator while Evan gathered reusable bags from the coat closet. Before leaving, he filled the cat’s water bowl, and she lowered the thermostat.

At the library, Maya returned Evan’s books while he waited in the car with the hazard lights on. She came back with a novel she hadn’t planned to borrow.

“You lasted four minutes,” he said.

“It was on the display.”

At the post office, they switched roles. Evan mailed a birthday gift to his sister in Arizona while Maya answered a text from their landlord about a plumber coming Monday.

The supermarket was crowded with families and college students. Evan pushed the cart, reading items from the list, while Maya compared prices. They debated pasta sauce, agreed on the store brand, and split up briefly—he went for milk and eggs while she chose vegetables. When they met near the freezer aisle, Evan had added ice cream.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither was your library book.”

At checkout, Maya used a coupon on her phone, and Evan bagged the groceries, keeping the bread away from the canned goods. They stopped at the gas station on the way home, where Maya pumped gas and Evan cleaned the windshield.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Evan put away the pantry items while Maya arranged produce in the refrigerator. By noon, the errands were finished.

Maya set the new novel on the coffee table. Evan opened the ice cream.

“Lunch?” she asked.

“Technically,” he said, handing her a spoon.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the grocery list on her phone while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re almost out of milk,” he said, lifting the carton. “And eggs.”

Maya added both items. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to develop a reliable weekend routine. Daniel gathered the reusable bags from the hall closet while Maya found the envelopes they needed to drop at the post office.

They drove first to the bank, where Maya deposited a check through the ATM. Daniel waited in the car, adjusting the radio and reminding her through the open window that they still needed quarters for the laundromat’s oversized machine. Their comforter would not fit in the washer at home.

At the post office, Daniel mailed a birthday card to his father, and Maya sent back a sweater she had ordered in the wrong size. Then they stopped at the pharmacy. While Maya picked up a prescription, Daniel compared prices on allergy medicine and texted her a photo of two boxes. She replied with a thumbs-up.

The grocery store was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya read from the list. They debated pasta sauce, chose a cheaper brand, and agreed to skip the strawberries after seeing the price. At the deli counter, Daniel ordered turkey while Maya went to find coffee. They met again near the frozen vegetables, each carrying something the other had forgotten.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank, and Daniel went inside for quarters and returned with two bottles of water.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags in together. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the mail and set the comforter by the door for later.

“We forgot dish soap,” she said.

Daniel looked under the sink. “Half a bottle left.”

Maya smiled. “Good enough until next Saturday.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel in the kitchen, comparing the grocery list on the refrigerator with the contents of the pantry. They had lived together for three years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and had learned that shopping without a list usually meant buying four kinds of chips and forgetting dish soap.

“We’re out of coffee,” Daniel said.

Maya held up the nearly empty bag. “We have enough for tomorrow. Still, put it on there.”

They left just before ten, taking Maya’s hatchback because Daniel’s truck was low on gas. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps and checked their post office box.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription and helped Maya choose a new phone charger after hers had stopped working. At the register, they debated whether they needed batteries, then remembered the smoke detector had chirped twice the previous night.

The grocery store was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya read from the list. They chose chicken thighs for dinner, vegetables for lunches, yogurt, cereal, and a bag of coffee. In the produce section, Daniel reached for expensive heirloom tomatoes.

“For grilled cheese?” Maya asked.

“For excellent grilled cheese,” he replied.

She laughed and put them in the cart.

They split up briefly—Daniel went for laundry detergent while Maya found cat litter—but met again near the frozen foods. Before checking out, they compared prices on olive oil and decided the larger bottle was worth it.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield and carried two bags of trash to the bin.

Back at the duplex, they unloaded together. Daniel put away the groceries as Maya changed the smoke detector battery. By noon, the errands were done, coffee was brewing, and their cat was sitting inside an empty paper bag as if it had been the point of the entire trip.


Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, tapping items into a grocery list while Daniel searched the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, lifting an empty carton.

“I added them already. Check whether the spinach survived.”

Daniel opened the produce drawer and held up a wilted bag. Maya shook her head and added spinach too.

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for almost two years. Weekend errands had settled into a familiar routine, although they still negotiated the order every time. Daniel wanted to stop at the hardware store first for furnace filters. Maya argued that the pharmacy was on the way to the supermarket. They compromised by starting at the post office, where Maya needed to mail a birthday package to her sister.

Daniel drove while Maya checked the addresses and store hours on her phone. At the post office, he carried the box inside, and she bought postage at the kiosk. Their next stop was the pharmacy, where Daniel picked up a prescription and Maya found the shampoo they both used on sale.

At the hardware store, Maya compared filter sizes against a photo she had taken of the old one. Daniel nearly grabbed the wrong package, but she caught the difference before they reached the register.

The supermarket was crowded. Daniel steered the cart while Maya worked down the list. He chose tomatoes, she picked out apples, and together they debated whether they would actually cook the ambitious stir-fry recipe they had saved. They bought the ingredients anyway, along with coffee, cereal, chicken, and a frozen pizza as insurance.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield and carried two bags of trash to the bin.

Back at the duplex, they unloaded everything in three trips. Daniel replaced the furnace filter, and Maya put away the groceries. By noon, the errands were finished.

“Stir-fry tonight?” Maya asked.

Daniel glanced at the frozen pizza.

“Let’s decide later,” he said, and she laughed.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through a grocery list on her phone while Daniel searched the hall closet for reusable bags. They had lived together in a small townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for three years, long enough to know that errands went faster when they divided the work.

“We need coffee,” Daniel called.

“It’s already on the list,” Maya said. “So are trash bags, toothpaste, and the cereal you keep pretending is healthy.”

He emerged with four canvas bags and smiled. “It has fiber.”

Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel used the self-service kiosk to buy stamps. Afterward, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya found the unscented laundry detergent that their usual grocery store had stopped carrying.

At the supermarket, they each took one end of the cart. Maya chose vegetables and compared prices on chicken, while Daniel checked expiration dates on milk and yogurt. They debated whether they would actually cook the bag of spinach before it wilted.

“We will this time,” Maya said.

“That’s what we said last time.”

They bought it anyway.

Near the checkout, Daniel remembered they needed batteries for the smoke detector. Maya went back for them while he unloaded the cart onto the conveyor belt. When she returned, he had added a frozen pizza.

“For the night we fail to cook the spinach,” he explained.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Daniel filled the tank while Maya cleaned fast-food receipts from the center console and carried them to the trash.

Back at the townhouse, they brought the bags inside in two trips. Maya put away the refrigerated food, and Daniel changed the smoke detector batteries. When the detector chirped once and fell silent, they both paused.

“Successful errands,” Maya said.

Daniel held up the spinach. “Ask me again on Thursday.”


On Saturday morning, Lena found Marcus in the kitchen, rinsing their coffee mugs and studying the grocery list taped to the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough that errands had settled into a familiar rhythm.

“We’re out of laundry detergent,” Marcus said, adding it to the list.

“And cat litter,” Lena replied, glancing toward the hallway, where their tabby watched them expectantly.

They left just before ten. Lena drove while Marcus checked the pharmacy hours on his phone. Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. Marcus waited beside her, holding the box until they reached the counter, then bought a sheet of stamps for the bills they still paid by mail.

At the pharmacy, Marcus picked up a prescription while Lena browsed the greeting cards. She chose one for their neighbor, who had recently retired, and met Marcus near the register. Before leaving, they used the photo kiosk to print a picture of the two of them at a summer baseball game.

The supermarket was crowded. Marcus pushed the cart while Lena compared prices and checked items off the list. They debated whether they needed two bags of coffee, agreed that they did, and chose vegetables for stir-fry. Marcus remembered the detergent; Lena remembered the litter. Each added one unnecessary item—his frozen pizza, her chocolate-covered almonds—without comment.

On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Lena filled the tank while Marcus cleaned the windshield and emptied a week’s worth of receipts from the cup holder.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags inside together. Marcus put away the cold items while Lena sorted the mail and started a load of towels. By noon, the errands were finished. They made sandwiches, opened the almonds, and sat at the kitchen table, pleased by the ordinary fact that the rest of the day was theirs.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Colorado and added coffee filters to the bottom. Her boyfriend, Daniel, stood by the front door, patting his jacket pockets.

“Keys, wallet, phone,” he said. “Reusable bags?”

Maya pointed to the canvas bundle on the kitchen chair. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus for nearly two years, long enough to develop a division of labor that was practical rather than official. Daniel carried the bags; Maya remembered what they had forgotten.

They drove first to the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps from the kiosk and checked their mailbox for a replacement debit card. Next, they stopped at the pharmacy. Daniel picked up his allergy prescription, and Maya compared prices on cold medicine before deciding they already had enough at home.

At the supermarket, they split the list without separating. Daniel chose vegetables while Maya inspected the chicken breasts, then they met beside the dairy case to debate whether they needed a full gallon of milk. They settled on a half gallon because both of them had been drinking coffee black lately.

“Did you get onions?” Maya asked.

Daniel looked into the cart. “I got garlic.”

“That is not the same thing.”

He went back for onions while she found coffee filters and the cereal he liked. At checkout, Maya scanned the groceries at the self-service station, and Daniel bagged them, keeping the eggs away from the canned tomatoes.

Their last stop was the gas station. Maya filled the tank while Daniel cleaned the windshield with the long-handled squeegee. On the drive home, they discussed dinner and agreed on tacos.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel put away the frozen food while Maya arranged produce in the refrigerator. When she found the onions tucked safely beside the potatoes, she held one up.

“See?” she said. “Essential.”

Daniel smiled and started chopping.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for three years, long enough to know that grocery shopping without a plan usually ended with two kinds of mustard and no coffee.

“We’re almost out of eggs,” Daniel said.

“And completely out of dish soap,” Maya added, writing both down.

They carried reusable bags to Daniel’s car and started with the post office. Maya needed to mail a birthday package to her sister in Arizona, while Daniel bought stamps and held the box steady as she taped one loose corner. From there, they drove to the pharmacy, where Daniel picked up a prescription and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine.

Their next stop was the hardware store. A cabinet hinge had been squeaking for weeks, and the bathroom faucet had started dripping. Daniel found a replacement washer, while Maya chose a small screwdriver set after reminding him that their old one was missing half its pieces.

At the supermarket, they divided the list but stayed in the same general area. Maya selected vegetables and checked avocados for ripeness. Daniel found chicken, yogurt, and the coffee they both liked. They debated whether to buy a frozen pizza, then put one in the cart for a night when neither of them wanted to cook.

At checkout, Maya unloaded the groceries while Daniel arranged the bags so the bread would not be crushed. On the way home, they stopped at a gas station. Daniel filled the tank, and Maya cleaned the windshield with the long-handled squeegee.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the groceries while Daniel replaced the faucet washer. When the dripping stopped, he called her in to listen.

“Quiet,” he said proudly.

Maya smiled and handed him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then they sat at the kitchen table, relieved to have finished the ordinary work of the day before noon.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to know that shopping without a list usually meant buying three kinds of chips and forgetting milk.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, holding up the empty carton.

Maya added eggs, then handed him the list. “And we need to return the router before the cable company charges us.”

They left just after ten in Daniel’s hatchback. Maya drove while he entered their stops into the map: post office, cable store, pharmacy, and grocery store. At the post office, Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona while Maya bought stamps and checked their P.O. box.

The cable store was crowded, but the return took only fifteen minutes. Daniel kept the receipt, folding it into his wallet in case the equipment fee appeared on their next bill. Afterward, they stopped at the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel found the allergy medicine he needed, comparing the store brand with the name brand before choosing the cheaper one.

Their final stop was the supermarket. They split the list by aisle but stayed close, meeting at the cart every few minutes. Maya selected vegetables and checked avocados for ripeness. Daniel chose chicken thighs and found a sale on coffee. They debated whether they needed ice cream, then agreed on one pint of mint chocolate chip.

At the checkout, Maya used the store app for coupons while Daniel loaded groceries onto the belt. The total came in slightly under their weekly budget.

Back home, they carried the bags inside together. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya arranged the pantry shelves. By noon, the errands were done. They made sandwiches, opened the ice cream “just for a taste,” and sat at their small kitchen table, pleased to have the rest of the weekend free.


On Saturday morning, Lena found Marcus in the laundry room, crouched beside the dryer and matching socks from a warm pile. They had lived together for two years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and weekends usually began with a list taped to the refrigerator.

“We’re out of coffee,” Marcus said.

“And dish soap,” Lena replied, adding it to the list. “Also, your library book is due.”

Their first stop was the post office, where Lena mailed a birthday card to her grandmother while Marcus bought stamps. Then they drove to the library. Marcus returned his mystery novel, and Lena waited near the entrance, browsing a display of cookbooks. She checked one out after finding a recipe for roasted tomato soup.

At the pharmacy, Marcus picked up allergy medicine while Lena compared prices on shampoo. They debated whether they needed another bottle of ibuprofen, checked the shared shopping list on Lena’s phone, and decided they had plenty at home.

The grocery store was crowded with families and college students. Marcus pushed the cart while Lena chose vegetables, rejecting two bruised bell peppers before finding better ones. In the dairy aisle, he reminded her that they needed butter. She reminded him that frozen pizza was not on the list.

“It’s for emergencies,” he said, putting one in the cart.

They divided the rest efficiently. Lena went for rice and canned tomatoes while Marcus found coffee, dish soap, and cat litter. They met again near the registers, where Lena noticed he had also picked up the cinnamon cereal she liked.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Marcus put away the groceries while Lena started the soup recipe. Their cat, June, inspected every paper bag and climbed into the largest one.

By late afternoon, the errands were finished, the laundry was folded, and rain tapped against the kitchen windows. They ate grilled cheese and tomato soup at the small table, comparing schedules for the coming week and feeling quietly satisfied that everything ordinary had been handled together.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re almost out of milk,” he said, lifting the carton. “And eggs.”

Maya added both to the list on her phone. They had lived together in a rented townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to know that shopping without a list usually ended with three kinds of chips and no dish soap.

Before leaving, Daniel carried a bag of recycling to the car. Maya locked the front door and handed him the library books they needed to return. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister. Daniel waited beside her, filling out a change-of-address form for a former roommate whose mail still occasionally arrived at their house.

At the library, Daniel dropped the books into the return slot while Maya went inside to pick up a novel she had reserved. Then they drove to the pharmacy. Maya collected a prescription, and Daniel wandered two aisles over to find batteries for the smoke detector.

Their final stop was the grocery store. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya read from the list. They compared prices on coffee, debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach, and agreed on the smaller one. At the meat counter, Daniel suggested tacos for dinner. Maya found tortillas and salsa while he chose ground turkey and avocados.

Near the checkout, Maya remembered the dish soap. Daniel laughed and turned the cart around.

Back home, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Maya put away the refrigerated items while Daniel replaced the smoke-detector battery. Its test alarm chirped sharply, making them both wince.

By early afternoon, the errands were finished. Daniel started chopping onions for the tacos, and Maya opened the new coffee. Nothing about the morning had been remarkable, but the refrigerator was full, the package was mailed, and their shared home felt settled for another week.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while her boyfriend, Daniel, checked the refrigerator. They had rented the small duplex in Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, and their weekly routine had become comfortably efficient.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, lifting the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “That explains this morning.”

They left around ten, carrying reusable bags to Daniel’s car. Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps and filled out a change-of-address card for a former tenant whose mail still appeared occasionally.

Next, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya compared prices on allergy medicine before choosing the store brand. At the checkout, they remembered they also needed batteries for the smoke detector that had begun chirping the night before.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya steered the cart while Daniel read from the list on his phone. They debated whether they would actually cook the bunch of kale Daniel placed in the cart.

“We always mean to,” Maya said.

“This week will be different,” he replied, though both of them laughed.

They divided the remaining work. Maya chose vegetables and bread while Daniel collected milk, eggs, coffee, and pasta. When they met near the frozen foods, he had also added ice cream.

“That wasn’t on the list,” she said.

“Neither were those flowers,” he said, nodding at the small bouquet in her hand.

At the register, they split the total using their shared household account. On the way home, they stopped for gas, and Maya cleaned the windshield while Daniel filled the tank.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel replaced the smoke detector batteries as Maya put away the groceries. By early afternoon, the errands were finished. They made sandwiches, set the flowers in a jar, and agreed to cook the kale on Monday—probably.


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like Arizona. She added coffee, handed it to Ben, and reminded him that they also needed to return a library book, pick up his prescription, and buy a furnace filter.

Ben checked the weather through the kitchen window. A thin rain had started, turning the street shiny. “We can do everything in one loop,” he said, pulling on his jacket. Maya grabbed two reusable bags and locked the front door behind them.

They had lived together in their Ohio duplex for nearly three years, long enough to divide errands without discussing every step. Ben drove while Maya entered the pharmacy address into her phone, though they both knew the way. At the drive-through, he gave his name, and she checked the bottle before slipping it into the glove compartment.

Next, they stopped at the library. Maya returned Ben’s overdue mystery novel while he waited near the entrance. She came back with another book tucked under her arm.

“You went in to return one,” he said.

“I improved the transaction,” she replied.

At the hardware store, they stood in front of a wall of furnace filters, trying to remember the size. Ben searched old photos on his phone until Maya spotted a picture of the utility-room label. They bought two filters because they were on sale.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya steered the cart while Ben gathered produce. They debated whether they already had rice, then called their neighbor, who had a spare key and agreed to check the pantry while watering her plants. They did not have rice.

By the time they loaded the car, the rain had become steady. Ben returned the cart, jogging back with wet shoulders, while Maya rearranged the bags so the eggs would not tip.

At home, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the groceries as Ben replaced the furnace filter. Then they made grilled cheese and tomato soup, leaving the remaining errands crossed off on the counter, the quiet satisfaction of an ordinary day settling around them.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, lifting the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which is more urgent.”

They had lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to know that errands went faster if they divided the planning. Daniel opened the grocery store app to check coupons while Maya gathered library books and a package that needed to be returned.

They left just before ten. Maya drove, and Daniel navigated around road construction. Their first stop was the post office, where Daniel waited in line to mail the return while Maya used the self-service machine to buy stamps. Next, they crossed the street to the library. Maya dropped the books into the return slot, and Daniel went inside to pick up a mystery novel he had reserved.

At the pharmacy, they bought toothpaste and filled Maya’s prescription. While they waited, Daniel remembered that the hallway light had burned out, so they added a box of LED bulbs to the basket.

The grocery store was crowded. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya read from the list. They compared prices on pasta, debated whether they would actually eat a large bag of spinach before it spoiled, and settled on the smaller one. Daniel chose apples and checked each for bruises. Maya picked out chicken thighs for Sunday dinner and found coffee on sale.

Near the checkout, they realized they had forgotten eggs. Daniel hurried back while Maya unloaded the cart. He returned just as the cashier finished scanning the coffee.

On the drive home, they stopped for gas. Daniel filled the tank, and Maya cleaned old receipts from the center console.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags in together. Daniel put away the groceries while Maya replaced the hallway bulb. Then they made sandwiches, pleased that the errands were finished before noon.


Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through the grocery list on her phone while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, lifting the empty carton. “And almost out of milk.”

Maya added both to the list. They had lived together in a small townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to develop a routine but not long enough to stop forgetting essentials. Daniel grabbed the reusable bags from the hall closet, and Maya found the library books they needed to return.

Their first stop was the post office, where Daniel mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. While he waited in line, Maya bought stamps from the self-service kiosk. Afterward, they drove to the library. Daniel dropped the books into the return slot, and Maya went inside to pick up a novel she had reserved.

At the pharmacy, Maya collected a prescription while Daniel browsed the seasonal aisle and returned with a discounted box of lightbulbs.

“Do we need those?” she asked.

“One in the upstairs bathroom is flickering.”

She nodded. “Good catch.”

The grocery store was crowded, so they divided the list. Maya picked out produce and pantry items while Daniel went to the dairy section and compared prices on coffee. They met near the frozen foods with two half-full carts.

“You got the expensive coffee,” Maya said.

“It was on sale.”

“It’s still expensive.”

Daniel placed it in the cart anyway, then added her favorite ice cream without comment. She smiled and let the coffee stay.

At checkout, they realized they had forgotten dish soap. Maya held their place while Daniel hurried back for it. He returned slightly out of breath just as the cashier finished scanning the groceries.

Back home, they carried everything inside in two trips. Daniel replaced the bathroom lightbulb while Maya put away the cold items. Then they made sandwiches, sat at the kitchen table, and reviewed the receipt. They had gone six dollars over budget, mostly because of the coffee and ice cream. Neither suggested returning them.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said, moving a jar of mustard aside. “And almost out of milk.”

Maya added both to the list on her phone. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus for nearly two years, long enough to know that shopping without a list usually meant buying three kinds of chips and forgetting dish soap.

Before leaving, Daniel loaded a bag of library books into the trunk. Maya brought along a package that needed to be returned and the utility bill they planned to drop at the post office. She drove while he reviewed their route.

“Post office first,” he said. “Then the pharmacy, library, and grocery store.”

At the post office, Maya waited in line to return the package while Daniel slipped the bill into the drive-up mailbox. Next, they stopped at the pharmacy, where he picked up a prescription and she bought toothpaste, comparing prices before choosing the store brand.

The library was busier than expected. Daniel returned the books, and Maya went inside to collect a novel she had reserved. When she came back, he had moved the car into the shade and was answering a text from his sister.

Their final stop was the supermarket. Daniel pushed the cart while Maya checked items off the list. They debated which coffee to buy, agreed on the one that was on sale, and split up briefly—he went for frozen vegetables while she chose apples and spinach. At the checkout, Maya noticed they had forgotten the dish soap. Daniel jogged back for it while she began unloading the cart.

By the time they reached home, light rain had started. They carried the bags inside together, each making two trips. Daniel put away the cold items while Maya sorted the pantry goods.

“Not bad,” he said, holding up the receipt. “Only one thing we didn’t need.”

Maya glanced at the bakery cookies on the counter. “We needed those,” she said.


On Saturday morning, Elena found Marcus standing in front of the open refrigerator, writing a grocery list on the back of an envelope.

“We’re out of eggs,” he said.

“And coffee,” Elena added from the kitchen table. “Which is more urgent.”

They had lived together for three years in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio. By ten, they were in Marcus’s hatchback, reusable bags piled in the back seat. Elena drove while Marcus read through their list and added dish soap after remembering the nearly empty bottle by the sink.

Their first stop was the post office. Marcus waited in line to mail a birthday package to his sister in Arizona while Elena bought stamps from the machine. Next, they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy, where Elena picked up a prescription and Marcus searched for the brand of allergy medicine he liked. It was on sale, so he bought two boxes.

At the grocery store, they divided the work without discussing it. Elena chose produce, checking avocados for soft spots, while Marcus headed to the dairy aisle. They met near the bread.

“You got oat milk?” she asked.

“Two cartons.”

“Then I forgive you for choosing the expensive eggs.”

Marcus looked into the cart. “You bought raspberries in February.”

“Fair point.”

They compared prices on pasta, debated whether they needed more hot sauce, and agreed to skip the frozen pizza because they already had one at home. At checkout, Marcus loaded the conveyor belt while Elena scanned the store app for coupons. She found one for coffee, which saved them four dollars.

On the way back, they stopped at a gas station. Elena filled the tank, and Marcus cleaned the windshield with the long-handled squeegee. A light snow began to fall as they pulled into their driveway.

Inside, they carried the bags in together. Marcus put away the groceries while Elena started a pot of coffee. By noon, the errands were done, the refrigerator was full, and they sat at the kitchen table sharing the raspberries they had both pretended were unnecessary.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to know that shopping without a plan usually meant buying snacks and forgetting dish soap.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, holding up the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which explains this morning.”

They left just before ten, carrying reusable bags to Daniel’s hatchback. Maya drove while Daniel read off their errands: pharmacy, post office, hardware store, then groceries. At the pharmacy, Maya picked up a prescription while Daniel compared prices on allergy medicine. He found a generic brand on sale and added it to their basket.

Next, they stopped at the post office so Daniel could mail a birthday package to his sister in Arizona. Maya helped him tape one loose corner of the box, then bought stamps while he waited in line.

At the hardware store, they searched for a replacement hinge for a sagging cabinet door. Daniel measured the display hinges against a photo on his phone, and Maya found the correct size in a lower bin. They also bought furnace filters after realizing neither could remember the last time they had changed one.

The grocery store was crowded. Maya steered the cart while Daniel gathered produce. They debated whether they would actually cook the bunch of kale he picked up, then agreed to buy spinach instead. Maya chose pasta and canned tomatoes for dinner; Daniel found chicken on sale and suggested making enough for lunches.

At checkout, they divided the work without discussing it. Maya unloaded the cart, and Daniel bagged everything, keeping the bread away from the heavier cans.

Back home, they carried the groceries inside in two trips. Daniel replaced the cabinet hinge while Maya put food away. When the door finally closed straight, he called her over to admire it.

“Successful morning,” he said.

Maya poured them both coffee from the newly opened bag. “Now it is.”


On Saturday morning, Maya found the grocery list under a magnet shaped like a lobster. She added coffee, then called toward the bedroom, “We’re out of dish soap too.”

Evan emerged carrying a basket of laundry. “And quarters. The machine downstairs ate my last ones.”

They had lived together in a rented apartment outside Columbus for almost two years. By ten, they were in Maya’s hatchback, reusable bags piled in the back seat. Evan drove while Maya checked their list and mapped the quickest route.

Their first stop was the credit union. Maya deposited a check from a freelance project, and Evan exchanged twenty dollars for rolls of quarters. Next, they dropped a package at the post office. Evan waited in line while Maya filled out the return address, realizing only afterward that she had used his pen and slipped it into her purse.

“You steal all my good pens,” he said as they walked out.

“You leave them everywhere,” she replied.

At the supermarket, they split up briefly. Maya chose vegetables and compared prices on pasta, while Evan picked up milk, eggs, and coffee. They met near the frozen foods, each carrying an unplanned item: Maya had ice cream; Evan had a frozen pizza.

“One of these is dinner,” he said.

“And one is motivation to fold laundry.”

They checked the list together before paying. Evan noticed they had forgotten dish soap, so Maya held their place while he jogged back for it. At the register, they divided the total as they usually did—Maya paid with their shared household card, and Evan saved the receipt in an envelope app.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Maya pumped while Evan cleaned the windshield with the cloudy station squeegee.

Back at the apartment, they carried the bags upstairs in two trips. Evan started the laundry with the new quarters, and Maya put away the groceries. When he returned, she handed him his pen.

“I was wondering where that went,” he said.

She opened the freezer and made room for both the pizza and the ice cream.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to know that shopping without a list usually meant buying plenty of snacks and forgetting the milk.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, lifting the empty carton.

Maya added eggs, milk, spinach, and coffee to her phone. Daniel reminded her they needed trash bags, then grabbed their reusable grocery totes from the hall closet.

Their first stop was the post office, where Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister in Arizona. While she waited in line, Daniel bought stamps from the kiosk and checked their post office box. Afterward, they drove to the pharmacy. Daniel picked up a prescription, and Maya wandered through the aisles until she found the sunscreen they had meant to replace since summer.

At the grocery store, they divided the list without discussing it. Maya chose produce while Daniel went to the deli counter. They met near the dairy case, where he placed a carton of eggs carefully in the cart.

“Did you check them?” she asked.

Daniel opened the lid. One egg was cracked.

“That’s why I ask,” Maya said, smiling.

He exchanged the carton while she picked out yogurt. They debated which coffee to buy, compared prices on pasta, and agreed to skip the expensive strawberries. Daniel added a bag of tortilla chips that was not on the list; Maya added salsa in response.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Maya cleaned the windshield while Daniel filled the tank, both of them shivering in the cold wind.

Back at the duplex, they carried the bags inside in two trips. Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya arranged the vegetables in the refrigerator. By noon, the errands were done. They made grilled cheese sandwiches, opened the chips, and sat at their small kitchen table, pleased to have the rest of the day to themselves.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter making a list while Daniel checked the refrigerator. They had lived together in a small duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, for nearly three years, long enough to know that grocery shopping without a plan usually ended with too many snacks and no dinners.

“We’re out of eggs,” Daniel said, holding up the empty carton.

“And coffee,” Maya added. “Which explains why this meeting feels hostile.”

They left just before ten, carrying reusable bags and a package they needed to return. Daniel drove while Maya reviewed their stops: post office, pharmacy, grocery store, and the hardware store for a replacement air filter.

At the post office, Daniel waited in line to mail the return while Maya bought stamps from the kiosk. Then they crossed the parking lot to the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Daniel found the unscented laundry detergent they both preferred. He compared prices on his phone before choosing the larger bottle.

The hardware store was busier than expected. Neither of them remembered the size of their furnace filter, but Maya had taken a picture of the old one. Daniel located the correct aisle, and together they checked the dimensions twice before putting one in the cart.

Their final stop was the supermarket. Maya chose produce while Daniel collected pantry items. They met near the dairy case, where he reminded her about the eggs. She reminded him they already had three kinds of mustard at home.

At checkout, they divided the bags by weight so neither had to carry all the heavy items. On the drive back, Daniel suggested making tacos for dinner, and Maya agreed, provided he chopped the onions.

Back home, they put everything away together. Daniel installed the new filter while Maya started a load of laundry. By noon, the errands were finished, the refrigerator was full, and they had the rest of the weekend ahead of them.


On Saturday morning, Maya found Daniel standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of eggs.

“We’re officially out of everything,” he said.

Maya looked past him at a jar of mustard, half an onion, and two cans of sparkling water. “Not everything. We could make mustard-onion soup.”

They lived together in a rented duplex outside Columbus, Ohio, and had fallen into a comfortable division of labor. Maya kept the grocery list on her phone; Daniel remembered the errands they forgot to write down.

They left just before ten. Daniel drove while Maya reviewed the list and added coffee filters. Their first stop was the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Daniel bought toothpaste. At the counter, he noticed a display of birthday cards and remembered they needed one for his sister. Maya chose a card with a sleepy-looking dog on the front, which they both agreed was perfect.

Next, they stopped at the post office. Daniel carried in a box of books he had promised to mail to his cousin, while Maya waited in the car and called the veterinary clinic to schedule their cat’s annual checkup.

At the supermarket, they split up briefly. Maya collected produce and bread while Daniel found rice, canned tomatoes, and the specific brand of coffee they both liked. They met near the dairy case, where Daniel had added ice cream to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list,” Maya said.

“Neither was mustard-onion soup,” he replied.

At checkout, Maya unloaded the cart while Daniel bagged the groceries, putting the eggs and bread together so they would not get crushed. On the way home, they stopped for gas and used the car wash, laughing when one spinning brush slapped loudly against Daniel’s window.

Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips. Maya put away the cold items while Daniel sorted the pantry goods. By noon, the errands were done, the refrigerator was full, and they were eating sandwiches at the kitchen counter, sharing the ice cream straight from the carton.


Maya was tying her shoes by the front door when Daniel came down the stairs with the grocery list open on his phone. They had lived together for nearly three years in a rented townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, long enough to know that Saturday errands went better with a plan.

“Groceries, pharmacy, post office,” he said. “And we need lightbulbs.”

“And coffee filters,” Maya added, reaching for her jacket.

They drove her hatchback because Daniel’s truck was low on gas. At the post office, he carried in a box containing a sweater his sister had left during her last visit, while Maya bought stamps from the machine. From there, they stopped at the pharmacy. Maya picked up a prescription, and Daniel wandered to the household aisle, returning with lightbulbs and a pack of batteries.

“You forgot the filters,” she said.

“Different store,” he replied, holding up the list.

At the supermarket, they divided the work without discussing it. Maya chose produce while Daniel went to the deli counter. They met near the dairy case, where he had added an expensive wedge of cheese to the cart.

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“It’s for dinner.”

“What dinner?”

“The pasta you said you might make.”

Maya considered this, then placed a carton of cream beside the cheese. “Now I’m committed.”

They moved through the aisles, comparing prices and checking what they already had at home. Daniel remembered the coffee filters. Maya remembered cat litter, though neither of them remembered whether the cat needed food, so she texted their neighbor, who had fed him the previous evening. The answer came back: plenty left.

On the way home, they stopped for gas and took turns cleaning trash from the car while the tank filled. By noon, the groceries were put away, the prescription sat on the kitchen counter, and the new bulbs were installed over the sink.

Daniel started boiling water for pasta. Maya opened the cheese and handed him the grater. Their errands were finished, but lunch, like most things in their shared life, was something they handled together.


On Saturday morning, Maya stood at the kitchen counter comparing the grocery list with the nearly empty refrigerator. She and Daniel had lived together in a rented townhouse outside Columbus, Ohio, for three years, long enough to know that shopping without a list usually meant coming home with tortilla chips and no laundry detergent.

“We need coffee,” Daniel said, tying his shoes by the front door.

“It’s already on there,” Maya replied. “Right under the detergent you forgot last time.”

They drove to the supermarket first. Daniel steered the cart while Maya checked items off her phone. In produce, he chose apples and inspected a bag of potatoes for soft spots. Maya picked out spinach, tomatoes, and cilantro for the tacos they planned to make that evening. They debated whether they needed two cartons of eggs, then agreed on one after remembering they would be away the following weekend.

At the checkout, Daniel unloaded the cart while Maya scanned their store loyalty code and bagged the groceries. The total was higher than either expected, so they studied the receipt in the parking lot. Nothing was wrong; olive oil and coffee had simply cost more than they remembered.

Their next stop was the pharmacy, where Maya picked up a prescription and Daniel bought allergy tablets. Then they crossed the shopping center to the hardware store for furnace filters and a replacement lightbulb for the porch. Daniel checked the filter size on a photo he had taken that morning, while Maya found the correct bulb.

Before heading home, they stopped at the post office. Maya mailed a birthday package to her sister, and Daniel bought stamps and dropped two bills into the outgoing slot.

Back at the townhouse, they carried everything inside in three trips. Daniel put away the pantry items while Maya washed the produce. When she noticed he had placed the cilantro in the cupboard, she laughed and handed it back.

“Three years,” she said.

“I was distracted by the coffee,” he replied, moving it to the refrigerator.


On Saturday morning, Elena found Marcus standing in front of the open refrigerator, holding an empty carton of milk.

“We’re also out of eggs,” he said.

“And coffee,” Elena added from the kitchen table, where she was making a list on her phone.

They had shared the small duplex in Columbus, Ohio, for nearly two years, long enough to know that shopping without a list meant coming home with snacks and forgetting dish soap. Marcus checked the pantry while Elena looked under the bathroom sink. By ten, they had a practical collection of needs: groceries, toothpaste, lightbulbs, and a return for the hardware store.

Marcus drove, and Elena handled the route. Their first stop was the pharmacy, where she picked up a prescription while he compared prices on allergy medicine. Next came the post office. Marcus mailed a birthday package to his sister in Arizona, and Elena bought stamps, teasing him when he admitted he had forgotten their ZIP code for a moment.

At the hardware store, they returned a faucet attachment that did not fit their kitchen sink. Elena found the correct size while Marcus chose warm-white bulbs for the lamp beside the couch.

The grocery store was busiest. They divided the list but stayed within sight of each other, meeting near the produce section. Marcus selected tomatoes and rejected two bruised avocados. Elena chose chicken, rice, yogurt, and enough vegetables for several dinners. They debated cereal, agreed on the cheaper box, then added ice cream anyway.

At checkout, Marcus unloaded the cart while Elena arranged the reusable bags. They split the total through the payment app they used for household expenses.

On the way home, they stopped for gas. Elena cleaned the windshield while Marcus filled the tank. Back at the duplex, they carried everything inside in two trips and put it away together.

By noon, the refrigerator was full, the errands were finished, and the new lightbulb was glowing beside the couch. Marcus made sandwiches while Elena started a pot of coffee, both relieved to have the rest of Saturday free.