In the shopping cart, she found a grocery list. The handwriting was pleasant. A bit slanted. Curvy. Flowers. She never bought fresh flowers. Why not? She’d buy some. She’d use the list. What better way to reinvent, to become someone new? So new, perhaps, that she’d forget about the emails and phone calls. Licorice. Basmati rice. Eggplant. Applesauce. Red wine. Olives. She didn’t like olives. But today she’d eat olives and drink wine and stare at her flowers blooming. She’d play Coltrane on the stereo and wait for the rice to cook and she wouldn’t let the pot scorch black. She walked the aisles and filled her cart and wondered if anyone would recognize her. She wasn’t herself. Green tea. Salsa. Steel cut oats. Provolone. He had a four-year-old daughter. A wife. She didn’t know that at first. The daughter liked Cheerios. “That’s not very original, is it?” she said when he told her. She meant the whole situation.