She lives alone now. The stuffed animals are at the Salvation Army. Her Legends of the Fall poster lays rubber-banded under the crate which secures her stash of adolescence. Her answering machine states her name and a polite greeting without a trace of sarcasm.

Her old roommates send cards every year around this time — fiancee’, husband, infant, dogs, sweaters, glossy finish. She tacks them to the fridge without full-frontal knowledge of her masochism. Yet, an unidentified twitch of pain always reaches the small of her back as she opens the refrigerator afterward.

At the grocery store, she always knocks the can of pea soup to the ground. Each day the ritual has become more elaborate. Today, she’s worn her new skirt, but the action is the same. The can rolls down the aisle — she bends to pick it up and casts an innocent smile sideways.

He’s not there. He never is. Today, the can rolls further than usual and down to the cake mix. Thank heaven for small surprises.

She heads home, unpacks the brown paper bags, and stalks to the closet. A tear rolls down her cheek as she pulls Love Actually from the crate.

A tub of no fat, no salt popcorn sits in her lap, but she knows she’ll be into the chocolate soon. She thinks back to the can and sees him: smiling with understanding eyes beaming from underneath square-framed glasses — his soft brown hair touching his fuzzy eyebrows. The grin on his face shows a trace of nervousness. He glances to her can, picks it up.

“You know…this is my favorite.”

Playing with the tiny cross around his neck, he hands it back to her.

She squirms with delight as she watches the credits. The menu music pulls her back. More tears drop into the hard kernels at the bottom of the ceramic bowl.

Tomorrow, she’ll waltz past twenty men her own age. Twelve of them will have interesting, well-paying jobs. Ten will have a moral compass — four will be members of her own church. Two will look like extras from an episode of Dawson’s Creek. They’ll all be suitable cast members for her life.

When she drops the soup, they won’t be there to pick it up. They never will. But, her trusty crate of emotional uppers will always be waiting. The fridge will always be stocked with sweets. The television will always have a new McBeauty.

When she is is forty, she’ll put an ad in the paper: single white female loves jogging, bike riding, and scrapbooking seeks responsible well-dressed man with integrity. At forty-two she’ll marry and adopt twins. At fifty, she’ll divorce — still thinking about pea soup.

Counseling will not uncover the source of her unhappiness. Countless memories of childhood will come forth with great weight and hope. Sadly, she’ll never realize that love isn’t a sweater sleeve snagging a rolling can of soup…it’s a state of mind.