Written by Izzy Hughes

Art by Lute Campbell

It was a Tuesday afternoon in late March of last year. Or maybe it was Sunday morning and early January? We were both wearing pants and jackets, probably. I might not remember exactly how it happened, but I remember you. It was my first time at the Healthy Living Market on Dorset, and it must have been yours, too, the way we both kept doing laps through the reasonless layout, running into each other every so often. You needed all-purpose flour; I was looking for the bulk bins because I wanted a pre-checkout, walking-around snack. We never found either. On our third time colliding, you asked if I had seen the baking aisle, yet. I said, “No.” You said, “This place doesn’t make any fucking sense.” Little did we know, there was no baking aisle. The Healthy Living isn’t organized by category, but human feeling, and I will never forget how I felt in that “S” shaped aisle next to the protein bars, baby powder, and canned tomatoes. For the first time, I felt known. You saw right through me, deep into my heart and my mind. With reckless abandon, you caught hold of exactly what I was thinking, “this place makes no fucking sense.” When I saw you leave empty-handed a few minutes later, having given up your cyclical wandering, I wanted to go with you, but something held me back. I spent over a year fantasizing about what could have been. Would we have studied the Healthy Living layout and conquered it someday? Maybe, we’d have gone to the Shaw’s or something, instead. I can’t spend another year dreaming up what could have been. Monday night, I’ll be waiting in the Healthy Living by the whole wheat pretzels. You can’t miss them, they’re right across from the artisanal soaps. If you’re out there, if you ever cared for me at all, you’ll be there Monday night waiting for me, and our souls will merge, again.