Page 99 of Burn Bag

I rolled my eyes, but agreed. It seemed that would be the only way for us to move forward. “Speaking of which, I can take this bandage off today.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, snatching a cart as we walked through the doors. “The doctor said at least three days.”

“And it’s been more than that.”

He nodded, but otherwise ignored me.

“So, that means I get it off.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Frustrated, I was about to argue with him when he wheeled us over to the tomatoes and started picking out specific ones. I stood there in absolute boredom as he inspected each one. Did it really take five minutes to pick out five tomatoes?

“I’m going to get some salad.”

I rushed away, thinking that I could get a jump on the shopping. At least then it might take half as long. But the moment I picked out the Iceberg lettuce, he tsked and grabbed the bags out of my hands and put them back.

“Iceberg lettuce is just blah. We need Romaine.”

“Why? Iceberg is already chopped up.”

“Yeah, and not nearly as good.”

“Well, it’s good enough for me,” I argued, grabbing the bag.

“But I like Romaine.”

“Fine,” I gritted my teeth. “You get the Romaine and I’ll get the Iceberg.”

“Why? It’s just ridiculous to get two types of lettuce.”

“Not as ridiculous as arguing about it,” I snapped.

His nostrils flared in anger, but I stood my ground. I may notknow how to cook, but I was more than capable of picking out the kind of lettuce I liked. “Fine. We’ll get Iceberg.”

I smirked as he put his back. From there, everything else went pretty much the same way. Every brand I liked, he poo-pooed as not good enough. Nothing I chose was up to his standards, and it became a huge argument.

“You know what? How about I get a shopping cart for my stuff and you get one for your stuff. Then, when we get home, we’ll divide our things and only eat what we chose.”

“Now, that’s just ridiculous. I’m going to do the cooking. I’m not going to cook with half the supplies and leave the rest to just sit there.”

“Well, that’s only because you’ve deemed me incapable of cooking!”

“Because you burned yourself the first time in my kitchen!”

“Your kitchen? Excuse me, but I thought we were married!”

A man walked past, laughing to himself, and I had a feeling he was really delighting in our fight.

“Look, your kitchen, my kitchen, it’s all the same. This is just crazy. We’re fighting over groceries!”

“I’m not fighting. You just keep telling me everything that I want is wrong!”

“Ooh, bad move,” the man muttered, who had stopped just a few feet from us.

Raising my eyebrows, I turned back to my husband. “He agrees.”

“He’s some random guy in a grocery store. Why would I listen to anything he says?”

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