I reached for a half-gallon of milk when the sense I was being watched came over me. As I placed the milk into my cart, I glanced across the aisle. My heart skipped. I crossed the aisle with a singular purpose. Was it infatuation? Kismet? I didn’t care. With wanton abandon, I reached out my hand to this stranger. “Come home with me,” I said. “I want you. I need you in my life.” I felt the slick beads of moisture against my palm as I wrapped my hand around the curve of the smooth, dark bottle of iced coffee.
Amos Landon lives in Southern New Hampshire with his partner, his sons, two hedgehogs, and a turtle named Pickles. He writes in hopes of creating smiles.