Without Ginger, Sunday afternoon seemed empty. I had grown used to her beautiful mop of hair and her presence around the house. I missed her more than I thought I would. But Dawson picked her up earlier than usual to attend Ginger’s friend’s birthday party.

 

Alone, I sat on my living room couch to consider my newfound feelings. I lifted my feet and stretched, desperately in need of sleep. But the increasing inclination for that sleep fled with a stab in my thigh. I scowled and shifted my weight in search of the culprit to find I had sat on one of Ginger’s elaborately-etched mini tea cups.

 

I shook my head, placing it on the coffee table. God, I loved the girl and everything connected to her. I had long since realized I had a special place to carefully arrange the occasional toy she left behind, and that spot was the only one I took great care to clean daily. With a sigh, I laid back and hoped I would fall asleep. I felt especially languid this afternoon, but I couldn’t shake the sensation I had something to do before getting comfortable. I frowned, eyes half-closed, straining to figure out what I’d forgotten. My body responded, my stomach rumbling loudly in the complete silence of my surroundings. I cringed as I remembered the errand.

 

“The farmer’s market!” I grumbled aloud. How had I forgotten?

 

I took the designated notebook out of its felt pocket and went to check the contents of the fridge to make a shopping list. I used the notepad of household and chore-related notes, as well as to-do lists, and as I searched for a free page, I stumbled on a message to myself from last week.

 

You’re in love. Buy yourself some flowers and get something with Ginger.

 

I smiled. Flowers were just the thing to cheer me up, and I knew a short trip to get something for Ginger wouldn’t hurt, either. It might have been better if she were with me as I apparently had planned, but not much could make me give up a shopping trip. Her absence wouldn’t stop me.

 

Half an hour later, I was ready to go out, having changed into a comfortable but stylish two-piece cotton suit with a detailed shopping list in my hand, the kind I rarely made. I chose a soft cardigan that fit loosely enough to be mistaken as a cape, and I grabbed my largest purse from the closet, dumping the contents of my usual bag into it. Then, I headed for the door.

 

I felt good about myself as I settled into the driver’s seat. I wanted to hit the largest farmer’s market in the area, so I braced for a considerably long trip. Of course, knowing of a nice coffee bar and a beautiful jewelry shop around the corner from the market added motivation to my choice of shopping venues.

 

Halfway there, I found myself listening to songs of the Brit Invasion, and I smiled, realizing some of Dawson’s taste must’ve worn off on me.

 

The parking lot was packed, but this was one of those days I had from time to time when nothing could bring me down. Besides, I liked being surrounded by crowds, and walking never killed anyone. I parked a couple blocks away and turned back to the indoor market.

 

The unique smell so characteristic of the market hit me immediately as I entered, and the familiar relaxation settled in my limbs. I breathed in deeply. Shopping always improved my mood. The solitude, the freedom to walk the aisles at my own pace and leisure, not having to worry about getting home to someone or chasing after a small child was one of the best feelings I could imagine. I didn't have too many indulgences like that, even simple things to curb my boredom. But shopping was one thing I always looked forward to. Often, I didn't even make a purchase. Just the act of being out in public by myself with no one to answer to was enough.

 

I perused various departments, careful to stick to my list and not buy on a whim. I even negotiated my way through one or two purchases. One girl, dressed in a cow costume, offered me some artisan cheese samples, and they were delicious. I just had to buy some of it.

 

My arms full of groceries and my heart full of triumph at not having given in and wasted my whole day at the market, I walked back to my car. I regretted my greed as I pushed hard to make it the last few feet, hoping my arms wouldn’t collapse under the weight of my purchases. I was almost there when I bumped into a familiar face.

 

“Hello, Mari! My God, those look heavy,” the woman said, a small plastic bag dangling from one hand.

 

I grimaced, my attempt at a smile. My neighbor reached and stacked a few of my packages in her arms, significantly easing the load. The relief was welcomed. “Thanks, Lorene, I don’t know that I would have made it to my car.”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing, girl. But damn! You really did some shopping!”

 

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Sorry.” I tried another smile but suspected it came out the same as before. It took all my strength to hold onto the packages with trembling arms. I had none left for pleasantries. We walked together, but I grew increasingly uncomfortable as she eyed me in a way I couldn’t quite describe. I attempted polite conversation. “Boy, these are heavy,” was all I had.

 

“Is your car close, or did you walk here?” she asked.

 

I didn’t get the joke at first and started to respond, but she laughed and I finally understood the question. “Oh, lord no! My car is just around the corner.”

 

She giggled and proceeded to talk nonstop all the way to the car. Without asking, I learned in a couple of minutes about her husband’s oh-so-successful latest entrepreneurial endeavor and her kid taking first place at another beauty pageant. And that didn’t take into account her minor personal achievements. “My Tommy never really lets me do anything. He takes such great care of me. This,” she said pointing at her tiny bag, “is all I am allowed to lift. I’m actually glad I found you. Carrying these groceries makes me feel alive.”

 

I laughed, though I felt complacent, and hurried to my car, struggling to unlock it. I finally just dumped everything in the trunk.

 

My neighbor was still talking. “Then again, you’d expect him to be caring and successful. He doesn’t have any bad habits like smoking or drinking or motorcycle fetishes or drugs. He’s very family oriented and proposed very early in our relationship. As a man should,” she said to my back.

 

I froze, my hands on the ornate package with the artisan cheese. “What?” I blurted out.

 

“Huh?” she asked with false innocence, her big mascara thick eyes blinking back at me.

 

I shook my head, trying to dispel the anger growing inside. Then, I turned to her and started taking the bags she held and placing them haphazardly on top of the other groceries. I didn’t look up at her. I couldn’t. Instead, I focused on transferring the bags as fast as possible into my trunk. When I finished, I turned on my heel and went around to the driver’s side. “I have something to do,” I mumbled, getting in. I couldn’t believe my ears. The nerve!

 

I drove off without saying another word, leaving her standing in the street and staring after my taillights. I was far too angry for coffee or presents. The drive home was long, so I had time to think, whether I wanted to or not. I realized I wasn’t as angry with my neighbor as I was with myself.

 

And at Dawson.

 

Where were we going? I needed to talk to him about us, about everything. At the same time, I didn’t have a lot to go on. What would I say? What would I ask? The difficulty I had with starting this sort of conversation had been the reason for many things that had gone unsaid between us. Or rather, they would have if Dawson didn’t have his way of reading my mind. It was one of the things I loved so much about him. Surely, someone who knew me so well, inside as well as out, would be the one I should be with, right? Regardless of a ring on my finger.

 

I smiled at that thought and some of the tension dissipated.

 

Still, I sighed and wondered how to go about asking the problematic relationship questions. Especially when two people shared a damning secret as Dawson and I did. It seemed like professing our love to one another was such a small matter that, in our case, it was practically irrelevant.