John’s, but Mary wanted to bring Irma flowers. The flowers spoke of ritual, and this one was important. She eased the red Ford into the snow-carpeted parking lot at the grocery store, pleased to see that her makeshift roof was bearing up under the strain. The climbing sun, appearing briefly from behind the gray clouds, warmed her face as she limped across the lot, wondering why she could barely grasp the scent of fry grease from the burger joint nearby. She entered the grocery store but did not take a cart. The pretty cashier, whose name tag read SHARLA, glanced at the plastic customer card Mary offered and said without looking up, “Hello, Mrs. Gooch.” It was a habit of retail that Mary found irksome. She didn’t care if it was churlish, she wanted to be anonymous while shopping. There was hardly any use in pretending, though. The cashier saw her nearly every day. “Hello, Sharla.” Mary put the bouquet of sunflowers on the conveyor.
