“Well, if all else fails I can just become a realtor,” Maya chirped. He stopped wheeling the cart.

“Sorry?” he said.

“I’m kidding. I mean, maybe I will become a realtor, married with two kids in my twenties,” Maya said. “I can see it.”

“No, you will not,” Priscilla said. “You’re too talented for that.”

Both of Maya’s nose piercings glistened in the fluorescent light of the frigid grocery. She looked like an artist, Paul thought.

He was quiet the rest of their time in Publix. Afterward, politely enough, he parted ways with the women and got into his car.

He braked at the parking lot topiary, the automated sprinklers wetting his sedan. Maya was right, he should feel ashamed⁠—⁠not of his hopes and fantasies, but of the self he had developed to deal with their ruinous state.