Love in the Grocery Isle by Louann Carroll

I never expected to meet the love of my life while wrestling a 24-pack of toilet paper at Costco, but fate has a sense of humor. 

At least the carts are big, I thought to myself as I tugged the enormous package from the shelf. The plastic tore on my first attempt, so I tugged harder. The entire display responded by showering me with a waterfall of toilet paper. At least I didn't break my neck, I thought.

From behind me came a gasp and then a voice: "Are you okay? Do you need help?"

I turned around to find a devastatingly handsome man pushing a shopping cart with one bottle of taco sauce and one avocado. This, I thought, is the unmistakable diet of someone who should not be left unsupervised. I paused. Maybe he's single. Shit. 

“I’m fine,” I said, emerging from the toilet‑paper mountain like a confused groundhog. “Just trying to buy the essentials. You know, Charmin, Quilted Northern, Angel Soft." I blushed. "It's hard to choose." I ramble when I'm nervous.

He nodded solemnly. “Toilet paper is the backbone of civilization.”

That made me laugh — a snort-laugh, unfortunately — and his eyes lit up like he’d just discovered a rare bird. A man who can make me laugh is worth his weight in gold.  I was determined to find out how much he was worth. 

​We ended up walking the aisles together, bonding over our mutual hatred of self-checkout machines and the firm belief that cereal should count as dinner. We discussed the nutritional value of Top Ramon, canned soup, and pasta. And lest we forget, the enormous risk we take buying GMO foods. 

When we reached the checkout, complete with a live human being you can actually give money to, I accepted the fact he wasn't going to ask me out. Now if I was with my friend, Janet, she would have been all over him. Me? I'm an old-fashioned girl. If you like me, ask me out. I won't do it for you. I can't take anymore rejection. I took a deep breath and decided to move on. 

“So…," he said. "Would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or, uh… compare shopping lists?”

​I grinned, relieved. “Only if you promise to buy more than one avocado.”

He raised his hand like he was taking an oath. “I can commit to at least three.”

​And just like that, romance bloomed — right between the paper goods and the discounted canned soup with preformed meat.

​Life is good.