Us in the Grocery Store

Together, we enter the grocery store

blissful, annoying,

unintentionally gloating.

A spanish woman with orangey-red lipstick

glares at me,

her faceless husband leaving her to push the cart,

to gather the coupons for check out.

She must be jealous of our hands intertwined,

your eyes readjusting to meet mine every time I speak,

and the youthful glint.

Absent-mindedly, I run into fixtures of bananas and Tupperware towers,

gargantuan cardboard advertisements for Ovaltine, 

Starkist, Kool Aid.

Like a preteen drunk for the first time, I am

dizzy from the syrupy sweetness,

numbed by the kick.

You drag me by my hand 

when I head in the wrong direction;

An older woman smiles at us with kind eyes.

I help you bag at the self checkout.

You take the heavy one with the liters of soda in it,

and we saunter back to your car.

You unlock my door first then give me a kiss 

before walking around to the other side.