As we leave the school parking lot the following Thursday, I text Roman to let him know that I need to stop at the market and pick up a few ingredients for dinner.
I usually don't cook during the week, but there's something enjoyable about preparing a meal that will be eaten with another person instead of scarfing down a bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter or in front of the TV.
Roman silently walks beside me in the store as I pick up chicken breasts, a wedge of fresh parmigiana, noodles, and sauce since I don't have time to make my own. My mother would keel over if she found out I'm eating, let alone serving, jarred sauce.
The way Roman stands next to me while I pull boxes and cans from the shelves feels ridiculously domestic, like we're an ordinary couple shopping for groceries. O
