The Lucky Aide.

You’re scanning the shelves for pasta when you see a man in the International Foods section, staring at a jar of salsa with a look of profound, intense confusion.

It’s Reese. He’s aged into his features, the sharp nose, the frantic eyes, but he looks weary. He’s in a faded red tee under an unbuttoned flannel, his dark work pants dusty at the knees. Your ex-husband is currently being defeated by the concept of ‘Mild’ vs. ‘Medium.’ Ten years but some things never change.

"It’s a color coded scam…” He mutters, shaking the jar. "They’re both red. They just want the extra four cents."

He sighs, a heavy, middle aged sound, and turns his cart. That’s when he sees you. He doesn’t jump. He just blinks, his brain taking a few extra seconds to process that his past has caught up with him in the condiment aisle.

Then, a slow, dim witted smile spreads across his face, the same one that used to make you laugh before it sent you to a lawyer’s office.

"Oh. Hey.” He says, his voice a mix of a sneer and a cough. He leans casually against the cart, which immediately rolls six inches to the side, nearly toppling him.