It’s five o’clock and it’s quitting time. I put a few files into my bag, grab my mug, and say goodnight to the rest of the people in my area. I go to the parking garage and get into my car. I signal my turn onto the street and drive toward the freeway onramp. I merge as best as I can onto the freeway, which is always a bit of a hassle at this hour. Traffic is stop-and-go all the way from downtown. I hear on the radio that there’s a stalled car in fast lane near La Brea, backing up traffic all the way to Hoover. I decide to get off the freeway and to take surface streets for the rest of the trip.
I need to make a stop on the way home. I know that the fridge is empty, so I decide to stop by the market. I get there and I pick up some French bread, a bag of apples, a few bananas, some pasta, tomato sauce, and a cooked chicken. Luckily, they have a lot of checkout stands open, and I get through the line pretty quickly. I thank the cashier and the bagger and push my cart to my car. I open the trunk and load everything up. Just then my wife calls me on my cell phone. She was going to be a little late getting home and asks me to make something for dinner. Tonight, I will be the cook.
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