The rain was just ending as I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store yesterday. I skirted puddles as I hurried inside, dumping my purse and a pile of cloth bags into the cart. I hadn't even made it past the display of watermelons and blueberries when I realized I had left my grocery list in the car. Since Boy in Black had taken the time to make the list out for me (checking the cupboards and refrigerator to see what we needed), I figured I ought to go get it. I turned and wheeled the cart out of the store, hurrying across the pavement towards my car.
I almost bumped into a man about my father's age. He looked familiar, and I gave him a friendly hello. When you go to the same grocery store all your life, about half the people in the store know your name or at least your family.
He paused, and I went through a mental list, trying to determine who he was. The parent of someone I went to school with? A friend of my father's? Someone who worked at the school? Someone I'd seen at church? I waited, figuring he would say something to give me a clue who he was.
Instead he looked at my cart. "Were they expensive?"
I looked at him, startled. "Uh, what?"
"The invisible groceries," he waved his hand at the empty cart. "Were they expensive?"