It was the Sunday before Labor Day, a cheerfully sunny late morning, and Laura and I were sipping coffee, reading the newspaper, and discussing whether Labor Day was meant to honor the workers or the mothers. Laura was singing a little ditty she made up, The Workers and the Mothers Should Be Friends, when our son, Richard, came inside from mowing the lawn.

“Speaking of the fruits of labor,” Laura said. “Would you like some lemonade, honey? You look all hot and sweaty.”

“No, thanks,” Richard said. “I’m just going to take a shower. Um, Dad, you said I could have the car tonight if I mowed the lawn, right?”

“As long as you get back safe and sound at a half-way reasonable hour,” I said.

“No sweat,” Richard said, and he sauntered off towards the bathroom.

“He takes a lot of showers these days,” Laura said as we listened to the bathroom door slam shut.

“Well, there’s a lot more of him to keep clean,” I answered.

Laura sighed.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking about the days when I’d give him his baths. He was so cute. So soft and smooth and cuddly. So ... so everything. My last little baby. What ever happened to those days?”

The phrase “down the drain” popped into my mind, but it didn’t seem to fit. Laura had a little tear in the corner of her eye. I wasn’t sure if it was a tear of happiness or a tear of sadness. “Do you think you might want another baby?” I asked her.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly looking at me. “Oh, goodness.”

I wasn’t sure whether that meant yes or no. Or something else.

“Another baby,” Laura said, as if mulling it over. “No, two babies is enough. Was enough. I haven’t the energy. But you’re so sweet. Come here and sit by me. Let me kiss you.”

I sat by her and let her kiss me. Sweet kisses. The kind we shared when we were new to each other, still getting to know each other. When our babies were far in the future. Soon the kisses grew more serious. Laura’s sighs turned to moans. She glanced towards the hallway, the bathroom just out of sight. Richard’s shower was still going strong. Laura sat back and sighed deeply. Her robe slipped open. She took my hand and moved it to her belly. “Touch me here, just for a second,” she said. I made medium slow circles on her bare tummy just below her belly button. Cute little belly, at once soft and firm, same as it ever was. I smoothed my hand down that gentle curve until my palm covered the hill of her plump mound outside the flimsy panties. She arched up, quivered. “Sweet,” she said. “So sweet.” My middle finger began to stroke the soft slot through the damp fabric. Gently Laura took my hand and moved it aside. She snuggled into my arms. Her next kiss was hot and lush and slightly salty.

“We have such good children, don’t we?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. “But maybe we could pick another one up at the store. Maybe they’re running a Labor Day special.”

“Mm,” Laura said. “We do need a few things. I think we’re out of bread.”

“I was thinking more of...”

“And milk. And raisins for your Wheaties. Do you want to go? I’ll make a list.”

“Maybe we could both go,” I suggested. “Like we used to.”

“I need to take a shower,” Laura said.

“By the time Richard gets out there won’t be any hot water. Not enough, anyway.”

“But I smell,” Laura said.

“You don’t,” I said. “You smell fine. Come with me? Please.”

“I’m not even dressed yet,” Laura said.

“Slip into something,” I pleaded. “I’ll leave a note for Richard. Hurry.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her into me and kissed her hard. “Hurry,” I whispered, slipping my hand inside her panties, kissing her while my finger worked. “Hurry, before everything is gone.” I stopped, leaving her trembling on the edge. “Slip into something; I need you with me. Let’s go.”

“You write the note,” Laura said.

“You smell so good,” I said to Laura, sniffing my fingers. “So good.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said as she buttoned up her blouse. “My hair isn’t even brushed.”

“You’re my brave girl,” I told her as I walked her out to the car. From the rear curve of our driveway we could see a crescent of cool green lawn.

“I can’t believe...”

“The grass smells nice. Richard did a good job.”

Laura took a deep breath. “It is nice,” she said, “Not like spring, but still nice. Spicier, a little like apples and clover.”

“A little like you,” I said as I kissed her. I sucked her tongue into my mouth. She clung to me.

“What did you say in the note?” she asked in the car. We were underway, almost there.

“That we love him to pieces and we’re going to the store and we’ll bring him home a special treat.”

“Mm, a special treat.” Laura put her hand on my thigh. “Sounds like a nice note,” she said. “What kind of special treat did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I wasn’t really thinking. Chocolate chip cookies? Anyway it might not matter. We’ll probably be back home before he’s out of the shower.”

The parking lot of Riller’s Market was nearly empty. “Not many Sunday morning shoppers,” I said to Laura. “Everyone’s probably resting up for Labor Day.” Laura was brushing her hair. “It looks fine,” I said. “Wildly beautiful.” She gave me a doubtful look. I kissed her.

“I know I can’t trust you,” she said. She frisked a strand into place. Shook it out.

I kissed her again. We hadn’t had this many kisses in a long time. “Let’s get this over with,” she said. Then she laughed. “I’m hopeless.”

“Shall we split up,” Laura said once we were inside.

“No way,” I said.

“Okay, but let’s not linger.”

“Since when do I ever linger? What do we need?”

“Milk,” she said. “Two percent.”

“I like whole milk better.”

“Two percent,” Laura said, lifting the gallon into our cart.

“Raisins,” I said.

“Golden or regular?”

“Golden.”

“The regular are ten cents cheaper,” Laura said.

She put the box in the cart next to the milk. “What else?”

“Bread,” I said. “Crusty French bread.”

“Whole wheat,” said Laura. She added two loaves to our cart. “And maybe a fresh vegetable.”

She wheeled the cart, I followed behind. Full bins of fresh produce. Shiny eggplants with sleek skin dark as the inner curl of a Lake Superior wave. Improbably bright orange carrots rubbing up against each other. Peppers glossy and swollen like women’s bottoms. Mounds of ripe plump tomatoes. Snug white onions. Crates of sleeping corn. Bulbs of garlic pale and small as a small boy’s balls. Pears like breasts. Apples like breasts. Melons like breasts. Oranges and apricots and plums and peaches like breasts. Laura was looking at a display of baby potatoes.

A young woman with a cellphone was blocking the tray of cucumbers. Her cellphone was white as were her cotton shorts. She had a nice ass. “I’m sorry, am I in your way?” she asked. She looked like she had been crying, like she was about to burst into tears again.

“I just need to get a look at the cucumbers,” I said softly. The woman made some room for me, but not much. I noticed she had two cucumbers in her cart, which was otherwise empty except for a small bottle of olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil, light, according to the label. Her cucumbers were darkest green, smooth but for a few mottled bumps, slightly bowed, and up-tilted at the tips. The woman had her back to me. I couldn’t make out what she was whispering into the phone. She moved off down the aisle as Laura approached, a bunch of red grapes in one hand, a bunch of green grapes in the other.

“What do you think of these?” she said. “They’re not too sweet and not too tart and very juicy.”

“How do you know?”

“I snuck a few.” She grinned.

“What about these cucumbers?” I said.

“Some nice ones,” Laura said.

“Some naughty ones,” I said. “Maybe you could pick one out. Maybe you could pick out an especially naughty one.”

Laura wrinkled her nose. “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

“Have you ever ... thought about it?” I asked Laura.

“Not until now,” Laura said.

“I think it might be fun.”

“They’re too big,” Laura said.

“They are?”

“Definitely.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Take my word.”

“But maybe ... maybe as part of a Labor Day celebration. Please?”

“You can buy the cucumbers, but we’re not doing that with them.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I’d rather have the real thing.”

“But aren’t you curious? With a lot of oil I think it might be fun.”

“Oil? What kind of oil?”

“Olive oil, extra virgin. No cholesterol.”

“Not today,” Laura said. She pushed our cart on down the aisle towards the checkout.

We passed the ice cream, frozen foods, fudge sauces and chocolate syrups. Check-out was just ahead. Only two lines were open, both busy. Laura maneuvered our cart into the shorter line. The check-out girl was just bagging a man in tire sandals. Ahead of us stood the cellphone woman’s cart. As before, all it had in it was the pair of cucumbers and the small bottle of olive oil. The cellphone woman was nowhere to be seen.

The checkout girl looked at us. Cute girl, redhead, with freckles and a big smile. Pretty eyes. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe because she looked a lot like Laura when Laura was in high school. Her name tag said “Moira.”

“We seem to be blocked,” I said to Moira.

“I think the woman left,” Moira said. “She went running out all of a sudden.”

“Do you think she’ll be back?” Laura asked.

“Hard to say,” Moira said. “Why don’t you just push her cart aside? Someone’ll take care of it.”

“They are nice cucumbers,” Laura said, lifting them out of the cart. “Maybe I’ll just take them.” She set them on the conveyor in front of the bread and milk and raisins which I’d unloaded.

I watched the checkout girl take the cucumbers, put them on the scale. They were pretty fat around. She rang them up.

“We might as well take the olive oil, too,” Laura said. “Olive oil goes good with cucumbers.” Laura handed the small bottle to the checkout girl. I moved the empty cart out of the way.

We were almost home when I asked Laura why she’d changed her mind about the cucumbers. “I’m not sure I changed my mind,” Laura said. “But you didn’t get the kind of milk you wanted, or the golden raisins, or the French bread. I thought you could use a special treat. But I’m not promising anything. Maybe I just hate to see food abandoned.”