The people at the co-op in Putney are fancy. There’s usually a kid playing ukulele while stocking shelves. Its okay. My wife and I can still argue in the middle of this. We can still say harsh things. We can treat the place like a shed we are locked in. A friendly teen talks to his manager about foreign films. Then, as he hands me my sandwich, and says friendly things, things that feel like friendship. I give him money. He gives me change. And my dogs waiting in the car. She misses us. She misses us so badly. She wants to nibble on our noses.