Today at King Soopers, the produce clerk says, “How are you?” in a searching way. He is refilling the avocados, examining each one with robotic skill.

I lie: “Fine.”

The truth, though, is in my eyes, a message he's surely gleaned. We've noticed each other before. He is almost handsome, a man who would have been good-looking if someone had taken him from the oven in time. Instead he's burnt around the edges, hard and cooked down, his eyes the clear green of certain candies, the kind I used to suck on before the diabetes. I miss those candies. The missing makes me want to lick him.

“How are you?” I ask.

He says, “Great,” another clear lie.

“Good to hear.” I nod and push my cart forward. As if I can move on from it all: middle age and chronic illness, the creeping deaths of family and friends, the financial strains, the damaged marriage, the heartbreaking kids.

My cart rattles to the next section. A fluorescence of products, packaging, prices. Legions of color, stacked, shelved, and hung. Everywhere, a confusion of need and want.

The produce clerk and I like to think we're not buying what they're selling. The produce clerk and I like to think we know a thing or two. And yet, here we are. I turn. He turns. Our eyes meet and part. Candy.

The cart wheels around the narrow lane and pulls me forward. By which I mean backward, toward him. By which I mean I like to pretend I lack control of my actions so I can do what I want. The produce clerk watches my return, eyes steady, lips pinched just short of smug. The smug will come soon enough. We both crave it: my abjection, his arrogance. These are gifts we can give each other.

“Would you find me,” I ask, “your best avocado?”

“As it so happens,” he says, “I was put on this earth to do just that.”

He hands me something perfect and extols its perfection. It is cool and weighty and dark. Our fingers don't touch. They don't have to. We feel each other. Our smiles are enormous. We can barely contain our joy.