Page 21 of Red Flag, Green Light

“Pain is but a fleeting moment, a reminder I am alive.” He skids to a stop in front of the condiments. Then he looks at me. “Forgive me, little goddess. I’m hogging the fun. Do you want a turn?”

Not even a little bit. I do, however, want pickles.

I’m just not certain they’ll survive the G-force in Mars’s racecar.

Jutting a lip, I lock my eyes on the glass jars, then on Mars’s bright green irises. He follows my gaze and drapes an arm over the cart handle. “They’ll be fine.”

“That’s the can-do attitude that got me into this mess,” I mumble as I reach for the industrial-size jar that will last me until my next shopping day.

Mars snorts, but he stops skating around once the jar lands beside the less-breakable items we’ve already collected.

Mercifully, the meaningless buzz of other customers chattingblends with the music for a few blissful minutes. Alas, we only make it through two more aisles before Mars says, “So.”

Dumping my assortment of bread rations for the next month into the baby seat of the cart, I echo, “So…?”

His usual too-wide smile overwhelms his face. “How are you?”

I blink at the crazy man, cut my eyes toward the shelves of bread, and reach for another bag of burger buns. I think I’m going to eat burgers every other day for the next three weeks. “Fine.” I drop the bag in the cart. And add a third, just in case. I have been known to eat three-to-five burgers when left to my own devices.

Possibly because those devices often lead me to eat a single giant meal a day instead of several small meals like people are supposed to. In my defense, it’s not my fault that books are more interesting than food.

Mars clears his throat. “Are you going to ask me how I am?”

“No.”

“Not a fan of small talk. I respect that. How about you ask me which is my favorite card game?”

Next up, I need to restock my pasta and rice. Scanning my phone and the history of my previous orders, I murmur, “How about I ask your opinion on abortion and the current government leaders?”

“Until the day I acquire ovaries, I’m keeping my opinion firmly out of that conversation.”

“Acquire,” I echo. “What an interesting word choice.”

“Almost as interesting as your response.”

I retrieve industrial-size boxes of spaghetti. “We’re a real interesting pair, that’s for sure. About as interesting as…” I say the first horrific mixture I can think of. “…banana lemonade.”

“Banana lemonade is delightful.”

I pause halfway through obtaining several large boxes ofmacaroni—for pasta salad days, which shall provide variety amid the burger days—and look toward my companion.

Mars, calmly and disinterestedly, yawns.

As though he’s not said anything deeply disturbing at all.

“Surely you haven’t—” I begin.

“Had a banana frozen lemonade? I have. They’re an option you can pick on the kiosk at the gas station on Walls Road. Despite my commitment to the glory and wonder that is Taco Bell, I am distressed to admit I do not at all care for Baja Blast; therefore, other drink options had to rise.”

My poor brain struggles to keep up. “You preferfrozen banana lemonadeto Baja Blast?”

“Banana frozen lemonade, and yes. Would you like to try one once we’re done here?”

“My stomach hurts just thinking about it.”

“The stomach pain is but a fleeting moment, a reminder you are alive.”

I’m grocery shopping with a lunatic.

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