Outside Newport Market, the wheels of the shopping cart rattled under Mr. Brodsky’s grip. In it, a brown paper bag sprouted spinach leaves and crowns of broccoli. He detested vegetables. He hoped one of the cart wheels would hit a pothole, scatter the greens on the pavement and save himself the trouble of heaving them into the house and into Mrs. Brodsky’s kitchen. It was her kitchen. His kitchen privileges were limited to boiling water in a kettle and pouring it over freeze-dried coffee before being sent off.
Mr. Brodsky brought the shopping cart to a stop near his old Volvo and unlocked the door. Ten years earlier, he had completed his PhD in ancient languages—Hebrew, Aramaic, Arkadian—and was granted a professorial post at the local university. With his decent paycheck he could afford a newer model of car, but just as he had settled for a modest home in the suburbs, he now settled into his worn car seat and exited the parking lot.
Navigating the wet streets on the way home, he eyed the brown paper bag. It reminded him of how he’d first met Joan, the checkout lady at Newport. To look at Joan was to look at Sara, his first crush at Jewish summer camp. As teenagers, he and Sara had pitched a tent on a patch of dry land between two rivers. “We’re between the Tigris and the Euphrates,” he told her unabashedly, sharing his passion for ancient civilizations.
Rain fell. Mr. Brodsky switched on the windshield wipers and turned up...
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