Free Something New by Janis Thomas Page B

decade.”
    Trader Joe’s is a great market, and it’s easy to linger for a while, but usually I am in and out in ten minutes flat. Not today. Ben Campbell and I peruse the aisles together as I play tour guide, pointing him in the right direction for each item written on the carefully itemized list his wife gave him this morning. He is an affable man, charming and self-effacing and unassuming, and once I have gotten past the fact that he is an out-and-out studmuffin, I find myself enjoying the easy banter we have fallen into.
    As for cheese, he tells me that he would probably be Gouda. (He’d be
Gouda
, all right.) Tough, shiny, red skin on the outside with a mild, agreeable, if somewhat plain interior. I tell him I haven’t known him all that long, but I think he’d be more of a Cambozola. He laughs and asks if that means I find him stinky. I laugh and reply that I find him unexpected. Me, I’m more of a Brie kind of gal, I say. Simple, dependable, and high in fat.
    We come to the end of the frozen food and I catch a glimpse of the sample station, the place where customers can try some of the tasty food the store has to offer. No matter how short on time you are, you cannot do Trader Joe’s without trying a sample. It’s almost like there’s some kind of electromagnetic force that pulls at you, and you have no choice but to succumb to it. I am desperately attempting to veer off course, since I don’t want Ben to think I am weak and gluttonous,but I seem to have lost control of my cart. Two seconds later, Ben says something that fills me with relief.
    “I love samples!”
    Thirteen seconds later, I watch him stuff his face with turkey meat loaf and mashed potatoes, rice balls, and chocolate chip dunkers. I taste the turkey meat loaf and rice balls, think of my treadmill, and pass on the dunkers. Then we both chase the food with some pomegranate-cranberry iced tea. Ben sighs contentedly and drops his cup in the trash.
    “I could’ve done without the rice balls,” he states thoughtfully. “But those dunkers are the bomb.” He gives me a sideways glance, then whispers, “Don’t tell my wife about the cookies. She’s keeping the family off wheat.” He thinks for a moment. “And dairy. Red meat. Sugar.”
    All of the things that I love and adore
, I think. “So what do you eat?”
    He grimaces. “Tofu. Lots of tofu.” He shudders emphatically. “But, hey. I’m on the job. If my partner is driving and he happens to choose McDonald’s for lunch, what am I supposed to do?”
    “Not tell your wife,” I reply.
    “You got that right.”
    “Is she a vegan?”
    “No. She’s American.” He breaks into a smile. I smile back, praying that I don’t have any turkey meat loaf stuck between my front teeth.
    When we reach the checkout, he selects one lane and I select the opposing one, which causes us to occasionally brush our backsides against each other while the cashiers total our items. I’m going to blame my hormones again, but just the mere rustle of my capris against his Levi’s is giving me the female equivalent of a woody. I know,
know
, for a fact that this man has no ulterior motives or salacious ideas in hishead regarding Ellen Ivers. And I know that nothing will ever happen between the two of us. But I suddenly feel like I did when I was sixteen. Carefree, optimistic, my life full of possibilities, the world my oyster.
    “Did you bring your own bag?” the cashier asks, dragging me back from my thoughts. Instantly, the warm fuzzies evaporate, quickly replaced by guilt and shame. I
do
have bags, green-friendly hemp jobs with the recycling logo stamped on the side. When I bought them, I was extremely proud of myself for being so environmentally friendly, such a champion for planet Earth. And yet, not once have I remembered to bring them to the store. I know exactly where they are: on the bottom shelf of my pantry next to the family-sized box of Cheez-Its.
    I glance behind me and watch with horror as