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STICKY FINGERS

T he Past

Grandmother: Here, have a grape.

Me: Don’t we have to pay for it first?

Grandmother: Shh, don’t worry about it. Everybody does it.

Here’s a piece of candy as well.

Me: Oh, um, okay. I guess. Thank you.

The Present

The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as we weave through the grocery store’s wide aisles, tossing groceries into the cart—snacks, pasta, heat-and-eat pizza, fresh fruit and vegetables, cottage cheese, cheddar cheese, and ice cream—always ice cream.

Our playful banter fills the space between the shelves, me teasing Timmy about his love of canned soup while he makes exaggerated faces at my love of ridiculously spicy hot sauce.

Everything feels light and easy—the kind of fun that makes grocery shopping, of all things, feel like an adventure. We sneak in kisses by the produce section, bumping into each other playfully. I laugh as Timmy ties a helium balloon to the grocery cart, letting it serve as some kind of directional beacon if we lose each other in the store. We playfully argue over what bread to buy as if the fate of all further carb intake depends on it–Timmy wanting basic white bread, me wanting Ezekiel bread packed with seeds and grains.

As we stroll past the refrigerated section, Timmy grabs a cold smoothie from the shelf—one of those overpriced ones with high-quality ingredients—and twists the cap off without missing a beat.

“Thirsty,” he explains, smiling before taking a long swig, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He takes a couple more long sips and then drops the half-empty bottle into the shopping cart.

I raise an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping me. “You’re supposed to pay for that before drinking it, you know.”

He shrugs, and a couple of minutes later, he finishes the smoothie with a satisfying sigh. “It’s no big deal,” he says casually. “I do this all the time. I’ll just leave it somewhere.” Before I can respond, he sets the empty bottle behind a stack of soup cans, tucking it away like it’s a secret.

My smile falters. “Wait… you’re not actually going to pay for that?”

He smirks, apparently a little amused by my confusion. “Why would I? They charge way too much for those things, anyway. Corporate greed.” He winks, as if that justifies everything, and then pushes the jam-packed shopping cart toward the checkout.

I trail behind, a knot tightening in my stomach.

He glances at me over his shoulder, noticing my concerned expression.

“You’re overthinking it, babe,” he says. “Everybody does stuff like this. It’s really not a big deal.”

The way he says it—so offhandedly, like it’s an inside joke— makes me suddenly feel small, like I’m missing out on a secret rule everyone else knows.

My mind flashes back to the time my mother and I were in the grocery store when the power went out. Standing in the darkened produce department, I remember my mom urging me to eat as many grapes as I could. I still feel guilt at what we did, even though I know it likely didn’t matter in the scheme of things. And the way my grandmother had this self-entitled habit of helping herself to pick-n-mix candies and grapes every time we went grocery shopping. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just too uptight.

We reach the checkout, and I watch as Timmy unloads our groceries with an easy smile, chatting with the cashier like nothing’s amiss. My skin prickles with discomfort, but I’m not sure whether it’s because of what he did, or how normal he’s making it seem.

As we leave the store, groceries in hand, the moment clings to me like a fog I can’t shake. My gut tells me something’s off—there’s a dishonesty in it, a selfishness and sense of entitlement that leaves me unsettled.

But then, once the groceries are loaded into the truck and we both hop in, Timmy leans over and wraps an arm around my shoulders. He pulls me to him, kissing me gently on my forehead. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’ve never bent the rules a little. You’re so uptight sometimes.”

His words, light and teasing, poke at something inside of me. I feel a flicker of embarrassment—maybe he is right, maybe I’m way too rigid, making a big deal out of something so trivial. And he’s accurate, nobody even noticed, and it’s not as if the grocery store is going to go bankrupt over one smoothie.

Still, the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. Even as I laugh along with him, my nagging discomfort lingers, an unsettling ick I can’t quite brush off. And, for a moment, I wonder if I’m starting to see Timmy in a different light—one I’m not sure I like.