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

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

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

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

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

"Soft white makes it look like a séance."

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

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

"Did you get the tortillas?"

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

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

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

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

"Post office?" he asked.

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

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


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

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

"I'm optimizing."

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

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

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

"For what?"

"For the thing you make with the potatoes."

"That's yogurt."

They bought sour cream.

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

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


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

"You have the list?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's the ugliest one."

"Then why'd you bring it?"

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

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

The groceries took two trips to carry inside.


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

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

"Fourth. But who's counting."

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

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

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

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

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

"That's the goal."

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

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


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

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

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

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

"Chicken or the salmon?" he asked.

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

"I did say that."

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

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

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

"Same time next week?" she said.

He was already writing something on a fresh receipt.


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

"It's efficient," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"Did you make the list?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We have no freezer space."

"We'll make space."

They made space, conceptually, and got in line.

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

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

"Ice cream sandwich?" he asked, unpacking.

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

"Yeah," she said. "Okay."

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Great minds," he said.

"Lazy minds."

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I like them."

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

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

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


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

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

"I need coffee."

"That's on the way."

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

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

"These are nine dollars."

"They're good."

"They're nine-dollar crackers."

She didn't put them back.

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

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

"I know."

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


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

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

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

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

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

"You're kidding," Dana said.

"I thought you had it."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Noted."

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

"They were on sale."

"They're always on sale."

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


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

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

"Your mother calls anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

"We forgot dish soap," she said.

"We have dish soap."

"We have half an inch of dish soap."

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


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

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

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

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

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

"Just get the one your mom uses."

"My mom makes it from scratch."

"Then get the cheap one."

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

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

"This one," she said finally.

"You sure?"

"No."

They bought both.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everybody will see it. I gesture."

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

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

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


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

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

"Since when?"

"Since always. You just never go."

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

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

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

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

"You said either."

"I said either, but I meant creamy."

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

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

"Dry cleaning," she remembered, buckling in.

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


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

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

"It's in my head."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The cheap ones," she said.

"The cheap ones are cardboard."

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

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

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

"They were by the register," he said.

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


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

"List," he said.

"In my phone."

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

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

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

"We have pickled onions."

"We had pickled onions."

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"It's stale."

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

She let him buy it.

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

"They were out of the seeded bread."

"Sourdough?"

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"You always do this," he said.

"You always let me."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got four avocados."

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

"That's not how that works."

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

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

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

"You're okay," he said.

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


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

"List?" he asked.

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

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

"They were by the register."

"They're always by the register."

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

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

"I didn't say a word."

"You had a face."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

"You said that in August."

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

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

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

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

"That's not on the list."

"Neither is your third screwdriver."

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

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

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

"Yeah," he admitted.

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


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

"You have the list?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Saturday List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Car wash?" he asked.

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

"Good point."

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


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

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

"It's in my head."

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

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

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

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

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

"You got the coffee," she said.

"I did."

"So it was in my head."

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"We have dumplings."

"We had dumplings."

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

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


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

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

"That's four things."

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

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

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

"We have detergent," he said.

"We have half a bottle."

"That's detergent."

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

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

Theo carried the seltzer. Nadia held the door.


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

"List?" he asked.

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

"Chard. And anchovies."

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

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

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

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

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

"You did that on purpose."

"I did it out of love."

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


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

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

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

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

"Nothing good ever is."

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

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

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

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


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

"List?" he asked as she buckled in.

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

"That's Wednesday, we have time."

"We had time last year too."

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

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

"That's for your mother?"

"She likes dogs."

"She likes dogs."

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

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

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

"Or a weekend somewhere," she said.

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


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

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

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

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

"They still do that?" she said.

"Apparently."

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

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

"You forgot the rice," she said.

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

"There are other kinds."

"There are worse kinds."

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

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


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

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

"Eight. I counted."

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

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

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

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

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

"They were on sale."

"That's not a reason."

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tomorrow," Marisol said.

"Tomorrow," Dev agreed.

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


Saturday morning fog still clung to the parking lot when Dena and Marcus pulled into the Kroger on Fillmore. She'd made the list on the back of a takeout receipt; he'd forgotten his reusable bags in the trunk again, so he jogged back for them while she claimed a cart with a wobbling front wheel.

"Produce first," she said, "then we loop back for the frozen stuff so it doesn't sweat."

"You say that every week like it's a new revelation."

They moved efficiently anyway, the way people do after four years of shared kitchens. He picked out apples by weight, testing them in his palm; she vetoed a bag of spinach with a bruised leaf visible through the plastic. In the cereal aisle they had a small negotiation about whether generic raisin bran tasted meaningfully different from the name brand. Marcus lost, but only because Dena pointed out that he was the one who complained last time.

The self-checkout ate her coupon twice before an employee named Priya came over and fixed it with three taps.

After that: the hardware store for a furnace filter and two lightbulbs, then the dry cleaner, where Marcus discovered his gray suit had been ready since Tuesday. Dena waited in the car with the engine running, scrolling through a group text about someone's birthday dinner.

"They charged me for a shirt I never brought in," he said, sliding back into the passenger seat.

"Did you say something?"

"It was four dollars."

"So no."

"So no."

They stopped for gas, split a coffee from the station because the machine only had one clean cup, and got home a little after noon. Putting groceries away took eleven minutes. Marcus found the raisin bran perfectly acceptable, and did not mention it.


The Saturday list was magnetized to the refrigerator door, and Priya read it twice before deciding it was too ambitious.

"Post office, pharmacy, groceries," she said, pulling on her jacket. "The hardware store can wait until next weekend."

Daniel was crouched by the front door, tying his boots. "The hardware store is the only errand I actually enjoy."

"Then we'll do the hardware store second to last, so you have something to look forward to."

The car smelled faintly of the cinnamon air freshener he'd bought as a joke in October. He drove; she navigated, which mostly meant reading him the estimated wait time at the pharmacy and complaining about it. At the post office, she mailed a birthday card to her nephew in Ohio while Daniel stood in line behind her holding a package of returned running shoes that hadn't fit.

The grocery store was crowded in the way it always was on weekends, carts colliding gently in the produce section. They split up—he took the left side of the list, she took the right—and reconvened by the dairy case, where he'd forgotten which brand of yogurt she liked and had brought three options.

"This one," she said, taking the middle container. "You've bought this exact one for two years."

"I buy it. I don't memorize it."

They argued pleasantly about whether they needed more olive oil. They did not need more olive oil. He put it in the cart anyway.

At the hardware store he spent eleven minutes in the fastener aisle and emerged with a small paper bag of wood screws and an expression of deep contentment. Priya waited by the paint samples, holding up two nearly identical shades of green against the fluorescent light, thinking about the bedroom wall.

By four o'clock the groceries were unloaded and the car was empty. Daniel made coffee. Priya taped the paint samples to the wall and stood back to look.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of April day that couldn't decide whether to rain. Priya found Marcus in the kitchen, already dressed, scribbling on the back of an envelope.

"I'm making a list," he said. "You always say I forget things."

"You do forget things. You forgot the coffee filters twice."

"Once. The second time they were out."

She took the envelope from him, read it, and added *lightbulbs* and *thank-you card for your aunt* in her small, tight handwriting. Marcus watched her do it and didn't argue.

The car needed gas first. Marcus pumped while Priya went inside for two coffees, coming back with a receipt she folded into her wallet out of habit. They'd been splitting things down the middle for three years, since they'd moved into the duplex on Ashland, and neither of them had ever suggested changing the arrangement.

At the hardware store they disagreed pleasantly about wattage for eleven minutes. At the pharmacy Marcus picked up his prescription and Priya bought a card with a watercolor bird on it, which she deemed appropriate for an aunt.

The grocery store was the main event. They split up—Priya took produce and dairy, Marcus took the middle aisles—and met near the frozen section, comparing carts.

"You got the wrong pasta."

"It's pasta."

"It's linguine. The recipe wants penne."

He went back. She waited by the freezer doors, scrolling through her phone, and when he returned she was laughing at something on the screen and held it up so he could see. He laughed too, though he hadn't heard the setup.

They unloaded the bags at home in two trips. Priya put things away while Marcus broke down the boxes for recycling. Around noon the rain finally decided, and it came down hard while they ate leftover soup at the kitchen table, the lightbulbs still sitting in their bag by the door.


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

"Bank first," he said, backing out of the driveway. "Then the pharmacy, then Kroger."

"Pharmacy's on the other side of town."

"It's on the way if we take Vine."

She let it go. They'd been living together fourteen months and she'd learned that Devon's routes were non-negotiable, a private geography she'd never fully mapped.

At the credit union he deposited a check from his uncle while she waited in the car, scrolling through a group text about someone's baby shower. When he came back he handed her a lollipop from the teller window, green apple, and she laughed at him and unwrapped it anyway.

The pharmacy took twenty minutes. Her prescription wasn't ready; the technician said the doctor hadn't called it in. Devon stood beside her at the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, and when she got frustrated he said, "Ask if they can do a courtesy fill," which she hadn't known was a thing. They walked out with a three-day supply and a bag of cough drops he insisted on buying because she'd been clearing her throat all week.

The grocery store was crowded for a Tuesday. They split the list without discussing it—she took produce and dairy, he took the aisles, and they met near the deli counter with two half-full carts. He'd gotten the wrong kind of rice. She sent him back. He returned with the right kind and also a package of the frosted animal crackers she pretended not to like.

In the parking lot he loaded the trunk while she returned the cart, jogging it back to the corral because it was starting to drizzle again.

"Chinese tonight?" he asked.

"We just bought groceries."

"Tomorrow, then."

She got in and buckled her seatbelt.


The rain had stopped by the time Marcus found the car keys under a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Dana was already pulling on her boots by the door, phone in hand, scrolling the list they'd built over the week.

"Post office first," she said. "It closes at four."

"Then hardware store. I need a washer for the bathroom sink."

"The one that drips."

"The one that drips."

At the post office, Dana mailed her sister's birthday package while Marcus stood in line behind an older man buying stamps one sheet at a time. They didn't talk much. Dana rested her chin on Marcus's shoulder for a second, then wandered off to read the wanted posters.

The hardware store took eleven minutes. Marcus knew exactly which aisle, and Dana followed him anyway, holding a paint sample card up to the fluorescent light. "Would you hate this color in the bedroom?"

"What is it, gray?"

"It's called Morning Fog."

"It's gray."

She put it back.

The grocery store was crowded—Saturday afternoon, everyone with the same idea. They split up out of habit. Marcus took produce and dairy; Dana took the middle aisles and whatever they'd forgotten to write down. They found each other again by the bread, comparing carts.

"You got the wrong yogurt," she said.

"You said plain."

"I said plain *Greek*."

He went back. She stood with the carts and answered a text from her mother.

In the checkout line, Dana unloaded while Marcus bagged, and the cashier asked if they wanted the receipt in the bag or in hand. Marcus said hand. He always said hand.

The car smelled like the rotisserie chicken by the time they got in. Dana turned the radio down to a volume where it was mostly just something happening in the background.

"Anything else?"

"Gas, maybe. Tomorrow's fine."

They drove home with the windows cracked.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the coffee taste better. Dana pulled on her boots by the door while Marcus scraped ice off the windshield with a plastic spatula they'd been meaning to replace with an actual scraper since November.

"List?" she asked when he came back in, rubbing his hands.

"On the fridge. I added dish soap."

They took her car because his had the check-engine light on again, an ongoing negotiation neither of them wanted to have before noon. First stop was the pharmacy, where Marcus picked up his allergy prescription and lingered too long in the greeting card aisle, reading the funny ones aloud until Dana threatened to leave without him.

At the hardware store they argued mildly about lightbulb temperature. Dana wanted the warm ones. Marcus said the kitchen was too dim for warm. They compromised: warm in the bedroom, bright in the kitchen, and a package of picture-hanging strips because the framed print from her sister had been leaning against the wall since they moved in eight months ago.

The grocery store was the main event. Dana pushed the cart. Marcus vetted produce with the seriousness of a customs official, turning avocados over in his palm. They split up in the middle—he took cereal and canned goods, she took dairy and the deli counter—and reunited near the frozen aisle, where he'd added two pints of ice cream that weren't on the list.

"We have ice cream at home."

"We have half a pint of the flavor neither of us likes."

She let it go. In the checkout line they bagged their own groceries out of habit, her handing, him packing, a rhythm they'd developed without discussing it.

Back in the car, rain started in earnest. Marcus held the umbrella while Dana loaded the trunk, and neither of them minded much that it took twice as long.


The rain had stopped by the time Devon found his keys, which meant Priya wouldn't have to hunt for the good umbrella, the one that hadn't turned inside out during the storm in March.

"List," she said, holding up her phone. "Also, the library book is due today, and I refuse to pay another fine."

"You've paid one fine in your life."

"And I've never recovered."

They took her car because his needed an oil change, which was itself on the list, in a vague and non-committal way. At the credit union, Devon deposited a check from his cousin while Priya waited in the passenger seat, scrolling through recipes she wouldn't make. He came back with two lollipops from the teller's bowl.

"They still give those out?"

"She said they're for kids. I said I'd give one to my kid."

"I'm not your kid."

"You're eating it."

The library was three blocks over. Priya ran the book inside and came out with two more, which Devon pointed out defeated the entire premise of reducing clutter. She agreed and did not put them back.

Grocery shopping went the way it always did: he pushed the cart and drifted toward things not on the list, she redirected him with the patience of someone who had done this ninety times. They argued briefly about whether they already had rice at home. They did, but only a little. They bought more.

At the pharmacy counter she picked up her prescription while he stood holding a bag of frozen peas against his elbow, which he'd banged on a shelf and was being dramatic about.

Loading the trunk in the parking lot, Priya said, "We forgot the oil change."

"Next weekend."

"You said that last weekend."

"And I'll say it again," Devon said, "with total sincerity."

She laughed, took the cart back herself, and got in the car.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under the mail pile, which felt like a small mercy. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with the edge of his library card.

"You have the list?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "It's in my notes. You added things to it, right? Because if you didn't and we get home without whatever you're going to complain about—"

"I added eggs. And the good coffee, not the sale one."

They stopped at the credit union first, where Dev deposited a check from his mother that she still insisted on mailing, and Marisol waited in the car with the heater on, watching a man teach his daughter to ride a bike in the empty half of the parking lot. When Dev came back she said, "That kid's going to eat pavement," and eleven seconds later the kid ate pavement, and they both winced.

The dry cleaner had lost the belt to her blazer. The woman behind the counter searched a rack twice, apologized, and offered to knock the price down. Dev said it was fine in a tone that meant he'd bring it up later, at home, as evidence of something.

At the grocery store they split up, which they always did and which always took longer. Marisol got produce and the coffee. Dev got dairy and forgot the eggs, which he only realized in the checkout line and refused to go back for, so Marisol went, jogging, and returned to find him already bagging.

In the car he balanced the eggs on his lap because the trunk was full.

"We should get the oil changed," she said.

"Next weekend."

"You said that last weekend."

"I did," he agreed, and turned left toward home.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail on the counter. Dev was already at the door, holding her jacket out like a matador's cape, which he thought was funny and she thought was mildly ridiculous, though she took it anyway.

"Bank first," she said. "The deposit slip's in the glove box."

"It's been in the glove box for two weeks."

"Which is why we're going first."

They took his car because hers made a sound near the front left wheel that neither of them wanted to think about. At the credit union, Dev waited in the drive-through lane while Marisol filled out the slip against her knee, and they argued pleasantly about whether the branch on Fulton had shorter lines. Neither of them changed their mind.

The grocery store was crowded for a Saturday. Marisol pushed the cart while Dev worked from the list on his phone, which he'd typed out that morning in an order that made no sense to her—cereal between the produce and the dairy.

"You're going to walk us in a circle."

"It's the order the shelves are in."

"It is absolutely not."

He got the cereal anyway. She added a bag of the good coffee beans, the ones that cost too much, and he pretended not to see her do it, which was its own kind of agreement. At the checkout he bagged while she paid, and they split the load evenly walking out—two bags each, plus the case of seltzer he carried against his hip.

The last stop was the dry cleaner's, where Dev's one good suit had been hanging since a wedding in September. The woman behind the counter remembered them.

"You should get that soon," she said, "before I forget it's yours."

"He knows," Marisol said.

In the parking lot, the sun came out, unnecessarily, and they drove home with the windows down.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under a stack of mail on the kitchen counter. Dev was already in the entryway, tying his shoes, the reusable bags looped over his forearm like he was heading into battle.

"Bank first?" he asked.

"Bank first," she agreed. "Then the hardware place, then Winn-Dixie. That way the frozen stuff isn't sitting in the car."

The bank took eleven minutes, most of it spent in line behind a man depositing what appeared to be a coffee can of quarters. Marisol scrolled through her phone. Dev studied the flyers on the wall about home equity loans and made a face at the interest rates.

At the hardware store, they disagreed pleasantly about the shade of white paint for the bathroom trim. Dev held up two chips that looked identical.

"Alabaster," Marisol said. "Not Swiss Coffee. Swiss Coffee is yellow."

"It says white."

"It's yellow, Dev."

He bought the Alabaster, plus a furnace filter and a pack of picture-hanging strips they'd been meaning to get since March.

The grocery store was crowded for a Saturday. They split the list without discussing it — Dev took produce and dairy, Marisol took the aisles. She found him twelve minutes later squeezing avocados with the concentration of a jeweler.

"None of them are ready."

"Get one hard one and one soft one."

"That's not how avocados work."

"That's exactly how avocados work."

He put four in the cart. At checkout, Marisol bagged while Dev paid, and they loaded the trunk in the gray afternoon light, the parking lot puddles reflecting a sky that hadn't decided anything yet.

On the drive home he ate a handful of grapes they hadn't washed. She said something about pesticides. He offered her one. She took it.

The furnace filter rattled in the back seat the whole way home.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of April day that couldn't decide whether to rain. Dani found the grocery list on the fridge where Marcus had left it, magnetized under a takeout menu neither of them had ordered from in months.

"You added cilantro twice," she said, pulling on her jacket.

Marcus looked up from tying his shoes. "Did I? I meant to add limes the second time."

They took his car because hers still had the check engine light on—a problem they'd been ignoring together for three weeks. The dry cleaner came first, where Marcus retrieved two dress shirts and Dani discovered a blouse she'd forgotten dropping off in February. The woman behind the counter charged them for it anyway, apologetically.

At the hardware store, they spent eleven minutes in the lightbulb aisle. Marcus insisted the fixture in the hallway took a candelabra base. Dani was certain it didn't. She photographed the shelf tags so they could resolve it at home, which meant they bought both.

The grocery store was crowded. Dani pushed the cart while Marcus wandered off toward the deli and returned with a number tag and a container of olives that hadn't been on the list. They negotiated over bread—she wanted the sourdough, he pointed out that half the last loaf had gone stale on the counter. They compromised on a smaller loaf.

In the checkout line, Marcus scrolled through his phone while Dani unloaded the cart. He noticed and put the phone away, taking over the bagging without being asked.

The rain finally started as they crossed the parking lot. They loaded the trunk quickly, laughing at nothing in particular, and Dani slammed it shut while Marcus jogged the cart back to the corral. She watched him through the windshield, hood up, dodging puddles, and thought about how ordinary it all was.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the apartment feel smaller than it was. Dana found the grocery list on the counter where Marcus had left it, his handwriting sloping toward the edge of the paper.

"You added beans again," she said, pulling on her jacket.

"We're out."

"We have four cans."

"Those are black beans. I need pinto." He was already at the door, keys spinning around his finger, the way he did when he was ready to go and she wasn't.

They took his car because hers needed an oil change, which was errand number three on the list. First was the bank, where Marcus deposited a check from the freelance job he'd finished in October and finally gotten paid for. Dana waited in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone, watching the drizzle bead on the windshield.

At the grocery store they split up, an old system. She took produce and dairy; he took the aisles. They met near the frozen section, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops.

"You got the wrong yogurt," she said.

"It was on sale."

"It's vanilla. Nobody in our house eats vanilla."

He swapped it without arguing, which she noticed and appreciated, though she didn't say so.

The dry cleaner had lost his shirt. Not permanently, the clerk insisted—just misplaced, probably in the back, could he come Tuesday? Marcus said sure, fine, and Dana watched his jaw tighten and then release. In the car she put her hand on his knee.

"It's just a shirt."

"It's the good one."

"It's Tuesday-shaped now."

He laughed despite himself. They drove home through streets slick with rain, groceries shifting in the trunk at every turn, and unloaded everything in two trips because neither of them had the patience for three.


Marcus found the grocery list on the refrigerator, held there by a magnet shaped like a slice of pizza. He read it twice, then called toward the bedroom.

"Did you write 'the good bread' or 'the god bread'?"

"The good bread," Priya called back. "The seeded one from the bakery counter, not the sad shelf loaf."

They took her car because his needed an oil change, which was errand number three on a list that had grown all week. Saturday morning traffic on Colfax was thin, the light coming in low and yellow through the windshield. Priya drove. Marcus held the list and read it aloud like a proclamation.

At the store they split up, which they'd learned was faster, though it meant texting each other from adjacent aisles. *They're out of the oat milk you like.* *Get the barista one.* *That's four dollars more.* *Get it anyway.* They met at the checkout, and Priya put the divider down out of habit even though there was nobody behind them.

The pharmacy took twenty minutes because the line was long and the woman ahead of them was arguing about a copay. Marcus scrolled his phone. Priya read the labels on a rack of reading glasses and tried on a pair with tortoiseshell frames, and Marcus looked up and said, "Those are good," and she put them back.

The dry cleaner had his shirts ready. The hardware store had the furnace filter, though they'd guessed the size wrong and had to drive back with the old one in a plastic bag to compare.

By noon the trunk was full and they were both hungry in the irritable way that made small things feel large. Marcus suggested tacos from the place on Sheridan. Priya said yes before he finished the sentence, and turned left without being asked.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under the couch cushion, which felt like a small mercy. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with his thumb.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, coffee, the good bread, and whatever you wrote down at two in the morning that just says 'BEANS' in all caps."

"That was a serious note."

They took his car because hers still smelled like the gym bag he'd forgotten in the trunk for a week. At the pharmacy, Dev picked up his allergy prescription while Marisol wandered the seasonal aisle and came back with a bag of clearance Halloween candy in mid-November.

"That's expired."

"It's chocolate. Chocolate doesn't expire, it just gets wiser."

The credit union was next. They had to sit with a woman named Pat and sign forms to add Marisol to the account, which took forty minutes and involved three separate printers jamming. Dev kept making a face at the wall calendar behind Pat's head, a photo of a golden retriever wearing sunglasses, until Marisol elbowed him.

The grocery store was the last stop and the longest. Dev pushed the cart, steering badly. Marisol compared two brands of olive oil for what he estimated was four minutes of his remaining life. They disagreed about tortillas, resolved it by buying both, and stood in the checkout line behind a man buying nothing but forty cans of cat food.

In the parking lot, loading bags into the trunk, Marisol paused. "We forgot the beans."

Dev looked at her. She looked at him. Neither of them moved for a second, and then they both started laughing, tiredly, the way people do when they've been standing under fluorescent lights too long.

"Next week," he said.

"Next week," she agreed, and got in the car.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of Ohio weather that made the windshield fog no matter what setting Nadia chose on the defroster. She backed the Corolla out of the driveway while Theo reviewed the list on his phone, thumb scrolling past items he'd added at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep.

"Do we actually need capers?" she asked.

"We need capers if we're making that chicken thing again."

"We're not making that chicken thing again. You said it tasted like a lemon attacked a jar of salt."

He conceded the point and deleted capers. Their first stop was the credit union, where Theo deposited a check from his mother, written for his birthday two months ago and carried around in his wallet until the edges went soft. Nadia waited in the car with the engine running and the radio on a station playing songs from when they were both in high school, though they'd gone to different high schools eight hundred miles apart.

At the grocery store they split up. She took produce and dairy; he took the middle aisles and the pharmacy counter, where he picked up her allergy prescription and got mildly scolded for not having called ahead. They found each other again near the bakery, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops.

"You got the wrong yogurt."

"There are eleven kinds of yogurt."

"There's one kind we buy."

They swapped it out. At checkout, she paid, and he loaded the bags, and neither of them kept track of who had paid last time because it had stopped mattering sometime during the second year.

The last errand was the hardware store, for furnace filters and a replacement knob for the bathroom door. On the drive home the rain finally started, and Theo reached over and turned the wipers on before she asked him to.


The rain had stopped by the time Marisol found her keys under the mail pile. Dev was already in the driveway, scraping a wet leaf off the windshield with a receipt.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Milk, eggs, the good coffee, and whatever we need for Thursday when your sister comes."

At the grocery store, they split up out of habit — she took produce and dairy, he took the aisles. She found him twelve minutes later comparing two jars of marinara, brow furrowed like he was defusing something.

"They're the same," she said.

"This one has less sugar."

"Get that one, then."

"But you like the sweet one."

She laughed and put the sweet one in the cart. At checkout, Dev bagged while she paid, and they argued mildly about whether they'd already bought paprika last month. Neither of them could remember.

The pharmacy was next. Marisol waited in line for her allergy prescription while Dev drifted toward the greeting cards, reading the funny ones and putting them back. When she came out, he showed her one with a cartoon dog on it.

"For your mom's birthday."

"That's in August."

"So we'll be ready."

He bought it.

The dry cleaner had lost the ticket for his gray suit, which took ten minutes and two employees to sort out. Marisol sat on the little bench by the window and answered a work email. When Dev finally came out, suit slung over his shoulder in plastic, he made an exaggerated bow.

Last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter and a new washer for the kitchen faucet, which had been dripping since February. Dev held the filter up to the light like a man appraising art.

"Twenty-by-twenty-five?"

"Sixteen-by-twenty-five," Marisol said, without looking up.

He put it back and got the right one.

They drove home with the windows cracked, the car smelling like wet asphalt and cilantro.


Saturday morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of weather that made the apartment feel smaller than usual. Dana found her keys under a stack of mail while Marcus hunted for the reusable bags they always forgot to bring back to the car.

"Bank first?" he asked, pulling on his jacket.

"Post office. I have that package for my sister, and they close at noon."

The line at the post office moved slower than either of them expected. Dana held the box while Marcus scrolled through their shared notes app, reading the grocery list aloud in a low voice. "Coffee, eggs, the good bread, something for dinner Wednesday. What does 'the thing for the sink' mean?"

"The drain cleaner. It's backing up again."

"We should just call the landlord."

"We should," Dana agreed, in a tone that meant they wouldn't.

At the grocery store they split up, which was their usual method. Marcus took produce and dairy while Dana handled the middle aisles, and they met near the frozen section like two people running a small, efficient operation. He had grabbed avocados that were rock hard. She sent him back for softer ones.

The checkout total made them both wince slightly, but neither said anything about it until they were loading bags into the trunk.

"That was a lot for one week," Marcus said.

"It's the coffee. You bought the expensive kind."

"You drink most of it."

"That's true," she said, and shut the trunk.

The last stop was the hardware store for a furnace filter, which took four minutes and involved a brief disagreement about sizes that Dana won by photographing the old filter before they left, a habit Marcus grudgingly admitted was smart.

By noon they were home. He carried the heavy bags. She put things away while he made sandwiches, and the rain finally started, tapping against the kitchen window.


Saturday morning arrived gray and cool, the kind of October day that made the apartment feel smaller than usual. Nadia found her keys under a stack of mail while Dev searched the couch cushions for his wallet.

"List?" he asked.

She held up her phone. "Right here. And we need to swing by the bank, and I have to return that lamp."

The lamp had been a mistake—too tall, too gold, wrong for the corner by the window. Dev carried the box down to the car while Nadia locked up.

At the hardware store, they wandered longer than planned. Dev wanted to look at drawer pulls for the kitchen cabinets, a project he'd been threatening to start since August. Nadia held two brushed nickel options while he squinted between them.

"That one," she said finally, pointing to the simpler design.

"You're just saying that because you want to leave."

"I'm saying it because it's better. Also because I want to leave."

They dropped off the lamp with a bored teenager at the returns counter, then hit the grocery store, where they split up the way they always did—Dev to produce and the back wall, Nadia to the aisles. They met again near the frozen foods, comparing carts like they'd been apart for weeks.

"You got the good yogurt," she said approvingly.

"I got the good yogurt."

The bank had a line. Dev waited while Nadia sat in the car with the windows down, answering a text from her sister. When he came back, he had two lollipops from the counter dish, one grape, one cherry.

They unloaded everything at home in three trips, arguing pleasantly about where the extra pasta should go now that the pantry shelf was full. By two o'clock the groceries were away, the lamp was forgotten, and the drawer pulls sat on the counter, waiting for another Saturday.


The Saturday list was magnetized to the refrigerator door, written in Priya's small, deliberate handwriting, with three items added underneath in Marcus's looping scrawl.

"Dry cleaning first," she said, pulling her hair into a knot as she found her keys. "They close at four on weekends now."

"They changed that?"

"Since March."

He took the passenger seat, which he always did when she was driving, and adjusted the mirror even though he wasn't going to use it. The morning had that particular quality of late October light in their part of Ohio, thin and gold, catching the sycamores along Bellview Avenue.

At the cleaners, Marcus handled the ticket while Priya waited by the door. The woman behind the counter recognized him and asked about his mother's hip surgery. He said she was walking again, slowly, and thanked her for asking.

The hardware store took longer than either of them expected. Priya wanted the furnace filters, and the aisle numbering made no sense, and they ended up in plumbing before an employee redirected them. Marcus found a set of picture hangers he'd been meaning to buy for six months and dropped them in the basket without comment. She saw them and said nothing, which was its own kind of agreement about the framed prints still leaning against the bedroom wall.

The grocery store was crowded. They split up—she took produce and dairy, he took the middle aisles—and met near the bread. He had the wrong kind of coffee. She sent him back. He returned with the right kind and a bag of the pretzels she pretended not to like.

In the parking lot, loading the trunk, she said, "We forgot the stamps."

"Post office is on the way."

"It's not, really."

"It's close enough," he said, and she laughed, and they went.


Maya found the list on the refrigerator, held there by a magnet shaped like a lobster that neither of them remembered buying. She read it aloud while Dev laced his shoes by the door.

"Milk, coffee, the good bread, dish soap. And you wrote 'bananas??' with two question marks."

"Because I don't know if we finish them or just watch them turn brown," he said.

The Saturday light was thin and grayish, the parking lot at the Stop & Shop already three-quarters full. Dev took the cart because he liked steering it; Maya took the list because she liked crossing things off. They moved through produce with the efficiency of people who had done this two hundred times together, splitting up at the dairy case and reconvening near the cereal.

"They're out of the sourdough," she reported.

"Get the seeded rye. I'll allow it."

At checkout, Maya remembered they needed batteries and jogged back for them while Dev unloaded the cart and made small talk with the cashier about the weather, which everyone agreed was doing something strange for October.

Next was the dry cleaner, where Dev's one good suit had been waiting eleven days. Then the hardware store, for a furnace filter and a package of picture hooks Maya had been asking about since August. He held the filter under his arm while she compared hook sizes with real seriousness.

"This one," she said finally.

"You're sure."

"I'm sure about the hooks. I'm still not sure about the wall."

The last stop was the library drop box. Maya reached out the passenger window and let three books slide down the chute, one after another, with a satisfying thunk.

Back home, they carried the bags in together, two trips each. Dev put away the cold things. Maya wrote *bananas* on the fresh list, no question marks this time.


Saturday morning came in gray and damp, and Marisol was already halfway through her coffee when Dev shuffled into the kitchen with his hair pointing in four directions.

"List," she said, holding up her phone.

"I added stuff to it last night."

"I saw. We don't need three kinds of hot sauce."

"We need two," Dev said. "The third was aspirational."

They took his car because hers still had the check-engine light on, the one they'd been ignoring since March. The first stop was the credit union, where Dev deposited a check from his uncle and Marisol waited in the car with the heat on, texting her sister about Thanksgiving logistics. Then the dry cleaner, where the woman behind the counter recognized them and asked, as she always did, whether they'd set a date. Marisol said, "Still just us," in the pleasant, practiced way she'd developed, and Dev paid and held the door.

The grocery store was crowded. They split up out of habit—Dev to produce and the deli, Marisol to the aisles—and reconvened near the eggs, comparing carts like generals.

"You got the oat milk."

"I got the oat milk."

"But the barista blend?"

"Obviously the barista blend."

At checkout Marisol tapped her card, because Dev had covered the last two runs, and they carried the bags out into a parking lot that had started to drizzle. The last errand was the hardware store, where Dev bought a furnace filter and Marisol wandered the paint chips, holding up a card called Morning Fog against the light.

"For the bedroom?" Dev asked.

"Maybe. Someday."

He took the chip and put it in his coat pocket like it mattered.

At home they put everything away, arguing briefly about which shelf the vinegar belonged on, and then Marisol made grilled cheese while Dev changed the filter, and the afternoon settled around them, ordinary and entirely theirs.


Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzling, and Nadia was already pulling on her jacket when Theo emerged from the bedroom, hair still flattened on one side.

"You're not seriously going out in that," she said, nodding at his sweatpants.

"It's the pharmacy and Kroger. Nobody's grading me."

She let it go. In the car, he drove and she navigated the list on her phone, which had grown over the week into something unwieldy—groceries, his prescription refill, a package to return, a stop at the hardware store for the cabinet hinge that had been hanging crooked since March.

The pharmacy took twenty minutes. Theo stood in line while Nadia wandered the aisles and returned with a bag of gummy vitamins and a birthday card for his sister, whose birthday he had entirely forgotten.

"You're a menace," he said, taking the card.

"You'd be lost."

At the grocery store they split up, an arrangement they'd arrived at years ago after too many arguments in the cereal aisle. She took produce and dairy; he took everything in a box or a can. They reconvened near the freezer section, comparing carts like generals reviewing troops.

"You got the wrong yogurt."

"It was on sale."

"It's the one that tastes like drywall."

He put it back.

The hardware store was the last stop, and it took the longest, because Theo could not walk past a display of drill bits without stopping. Nadia found the hinge herself, in aisle nine, and stood holding it while he examined a socket set he had no use for.

"Ready?"

"Almost."

"You said that eight minutes ago."

They got home a little after one. He carried the heavy bags; she carried the eggs and the bread. The drizzle had stopped. The hinge sat on the counter for another three weeks.