The Political Opinion of Ice Cream Matters

Suzanna pulled a basket from the stack and readjusted her crossbody purse. She strolled into the grocery store, gray Toms slapping on the white tile. Her friends made fun of her because all she bought was gray: a gray purse, gray shoes, gray shirts.

“But then all my outfits already match!” Suzanna would respond.

Her friends would laugh and let her borrow a pretty pink dress whenever they went out. They would tell her she looked good in red and royal blue; it matched her chocolate brown hair and pale complexion, but she didn’t listen. Gray was her color.

Suzanna pulled out her old iPhone and checked the time. A half an hour break to get groceries, then back to her dissertation.

As she slipped her phone back into her gray purse, it buzzed. She pulled it out and read the text from her professor. It said he wanted her to retrain one of the undergrads; the newbie kept messing with the centrifuge. Suzanna texted him back as she walked down the bread aisle. She absent-mindedly snatched some sliced bread and put it in her cart.

She hit sent and slipped the phone into her purse. She switched her basket from one hand to the other. Suzanna walked around a mother and her two elementary-age kids. She pulled a jar of peanut butter off the shelf and read the back.

She shrugged and put the jar into her basket.