At the market you squeeze two cantaloupes for ripeness, then hold them out to me. I hand-weigh them, feint a backhands juggle, shrug, then heft both into our basket. You try for a look of exasperation, but you can’t stop smiling. Our happiness is insufferable.

In the cheese aisle, you pick a creamy French brie; I choose a sharp yellow cheddar, and then, to our surprise, we both reach at the same time for the small Havarti, our hands brushing each other. Why, just a few days ago we reached for the same brand of crackers. What revelations can be had at the grocery store!

You try to move towards the meat counter, but I have already turned our basket 180 degrees to the right, where wine samples have been set out in tiny plastic cups. After a taste or two, we decide to splurge and add to our cart a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for you, and Chardonnay for me.

To the unpracticed eye, it may appear we are two ordinary people, shopping and running errands, but we are nothing of the kind. With each step,  weaving our cart through the aisles, we are hand-stitching the fabric of our lives together. In every venue – even in the most mundane of surroundings – we  rediscover the mystery and miracle of each other.

At the meat counter, you order our dinner: chicken breasts stuffed with spinach and cheese. Tonight, we will bake them for thirty minutes, unwrap the foil holding our  steaming fare in all of its juices, and gaze through candle flame at each other like teenagers. All around us, the window glass will reflect our glowing faces amplified in a chorus of candlelight.

Our last stop is the cat food aisle to stock up on several cans of gourmet fish and tuna. I will open a can for the cat when we get back, a shameless attempt to ingratiate myself. She has had quite enough of our antics these last few days.

           The lady at the counter knows us by name. We pay our bill and make small talk as though nothing extraordinary is happening. As though the earth isn’t wildly spinning on its axis, hurtling through the heavens. As though the sunshine outside isn’t suddenly breaking through the clouds, revealing rain-washed mountaintops. As though within the hour we won’t skip lunch and spend the afternoon in each other’s arms.

(excerpt from “Whitegate,” published by Liz M. Weiman © 2000)