Page 4 of The No Repeat Policy

Bad 2010 pop music plays over the intercom system as I walk down aisle three. Rack upon rack of chips call to me under the bright fluorescent lighting and hanging ads, declaring four for five dollars two-liter drinks. The other side is packed with all sorts of crackers and cookies and candies.

I’ve been living off cheap ramen and Taco Bell since I got up here. This is not the aisle I need to be in unless I want to destroy the work I’ve put in every morning. My daily runs and occasional gym visits can’t go to waste, not entirely, so unfortunately my fridge can’t remain little more than a beer cooler.

I dare a check of my buggy. Yikes. It’s the proud keeper of a singular loaf of wheat bread and a classy-looking bottle of white Moscato. The goal is to eat at home and avoid fast food for the most part, so I’ve some ways to go in here, and this just isn’t the right aisle.

At the end I snag a pack of peanut butter Oreos at the very last moment and drop it into my buggy. One snack can’t hurt that much.

Around the corner I pass aisle four, baking goods, aka cakes and brownies, in favor of aisle five, pasta. I shouldn’t but I love pasta, all of it. It’s the only downside to working in IT. I love pasta. So I have to work out, but it’s worth it.

I eye the shelves. So many choices. I swipe a few boxes each of angel hair, lasagna, ziti, and cannelloni noodles. Next comes the blends of sauces and spices.

Despite the boxes of comfort pasta, it’s still weird being all by myself. Before, there was always someone else around. A roommate. A friend. Someone. Carlin mostly. She’s single-handedly kept my world together the past year. Probably the best thing to happen to me since my freshman year at UNC. We met in Biology, which is fitting now because she’s on the coast preserving marine wildlife for a living. Back in Charlotte she’d be with me judging my every purchase, eyeing me disapprovingly if I put something name brand in the cart but never voicing her displeasure. It was usually enough. It worked. Nothing in my cart is name brand. She’d be proud.

We actually FaceTimed last night and she did tell me not to waste my money since I won’t get a paycheck for a few weeks. So that helps too, I guess.

I round the corner and my eyes are assaulted, but I can’t look away. It’s the cutest little old couple. She’s short, hunched over with age, thin white frizzy hair cut short, clear-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, and wearing a full peach pantsuit. He’s not much taller. Wrinkles crease his forehead, tanned leathery skin drapes spindly arms, and a shine reflects on his bare scalp from the overhead light. She’s slowly pushing their buggy. He’s keeping pace with a cane in hand.

My lips shift into a longing smile and a sigh escapes me.

“Could you get a few cans of corn, honey?”

She motions to a shelf just out of her reach.

“Can’t reach it, huh?”

he quips back, his words jittery and a smile drawn proudly across his lips.

“Daryl,”

the lady says dryly, as if it’s a regular occurrence, even if Daryl seems to revel in it still.

He moves around her slowly as I approach and reaches precariously for the cans.

“Unsalted, make sure they’re unsalted. You got the wrong ones last time.”

“Calm your pearls,”

Daryl grunts, selecting a few cans and depositing them in their cart. He makes his way back around and slaps her butt on the way.

“Daryl!”

she yelps, staring him down but unable to hide the smile growing on her face. “Not here.”

“Sorry, deary,”

he gloats, all grins. “I just can’t keep my hands off you.”

She rolls her eyes as I pass by. God, they’re so cute. I fight back a verbal aw. I want that. I want what they have. I want to be that annoying husband my man just can’t live without. I want to be that old couple that makes someone grin with hope.

In the blink of an eye, that little glimpse of hope blots out with a flash of my old bedroom. Back before I moved here, before I moved in with Carlin, before that. Back to that first time I walked in to the sound of ferocious lovemaking in my apartment, to the sound of my boyfriend screaming to be fucked harder. My mind skips to my hand on the door, horrified, not at the unknown but what I knew was waiting for me.

I blink and try to focus on the music playing overhead. I think it’s Carly Rae Jepsen. I don’t know, maybe it's not. I just need to focus on something else. Something other than finding Michael in our bed with another man, twice.

He’s why I’ve sworn off love. What they have can’t be real. At least not for me. Or hell, maybe not for us gays at all. So many toxic-ass bitches trying to deal with unhealed trauma from childhoods riddled with shit they should never have had to deal with, but unable or unwilling to get the help they need. I’m not excusing it, but it’s fucked. It’s hookup culture or lonely culture.

But I want what they have.