The fluorescent lights of the Elmwood grocery store buzzed with a low, constant hum that made the skin behind my ears itch. I stood in the baking aisle, staring at three different brands of flour without seeing any of them, my fingers resting on the cold metal handle of my shopping cart. A woman with two small children brushed past me, her daughter clutching a plastic doll, and I had to turn away.
“Mary, you look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Caroline said, her voice cutting through the grocery store drone.
My sister stopped her cart right next to mine, her car keys tapping a fast, erratic rhythm against the plastic handle. She was wearing her green nursing scrubs, smelling faintly of antiseptic soap and spearmint gum, her eyes scanning my face.
“I slept fine,” I said, my hand instantly moving to rub the gold band on my ring finger.
“Don’t do that,” Caroline said, pointing at my hand with her keys. “You only rub that ring when you are trying to convince yourself of a lie.”
