A middle-aged woman reflects on whether her relationship with a young grocer is appropriate. The friendship isn’t explicitly sexual, and the relationship isn’t particularly a friendship, but she likes that the grocer is kind to her. Every night, she wanders “the sad aisles” of the grocery store to stave off her loneliness, and most nights, he’s there to chat with her, there to ring up her random assortment of sad-looking items. Occasionally, he compliments her, tells her she smells wonderful. The woman likes the way these compliments make her feel, likes the boy who gives them to her, with his politeness and moppy hair. The woman is prone to nervous breakdowns, she can’t escape her loneliness or anxiety, and the boy is there to bring some light to what is otherwise a heavy existence. One night, she leaves her wallet in the grocery store, and the boy runs out to return it to her. She can’t remember who asked who out first, can’t discern if it is a date explicitly or if they are just hanging out, but she finds herself sitting across from him at a bar. Their conversation is stilted, and the woman resists the urge to tell him about the terrible men she’s dated in the past. Instead, she tells him how she used to live in Florida. The boy confesses that he “like[s] it so much” when she comes to the store and then asks if she wants to go on a drive. The woman is convinced that this is how she’ll die, that this young cashier is going to murder her in some obscure place, but instead, he takes her to a church. The church is closed and the gate around it is locked, but they maneuver their way inside. Inside the gate is a statue of Mary, a statue people pray to for help. “She might be able to help you,” the boy tells the woman, and she figures that this—his kindness when she expected violence—is worse than what she’d imagined. She looks back at the statue and then says—either to it or the boy, it’s left unclear—“Take me home.”