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I shake my head. “My god . . .” She gapes.
She throws the eggplant into the shopping cart I’m pushing anyway and continues down her list of items.
When we pass the chip aisle, she pulls a Pringles can off the shelf and confidently holds it out like Goldilocks showing off her perfect bowl of oatmeal.
I begin to shake my head and she gasps. “No, no way—any bigger and you’ll be in a jousting tournament with my poor cervix!”
She clamps her mouth closed the moment a grandma passes us in the aisle. Georgie looks mortified, but Grams just looks me up and down with an approving nod then says to her, “Good for you, love. Just remember: lube is your friend, dearie.”
“Yep, thanks,” she squeaks, looking like she’s praying to be smitten on the spot.
“Have a great night, ma’am,” I call over my shoulder as she shuffles away.
I turn back to Georgie, who currently has her face buried in her hands. “Don’t worry, there will be no jousting.” She spreads her fingers to eye me, unconvinced. “Pringles has me beat on length.”
“But it’s . . . girthier?” she asks with disbelief.
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and push the cart. “Let’s go pick out a bottle of wine and I’ll show you.”
