He stumbled around with the flip top phone, arthritic fingers fat-thumbing a call home to his wife hoping she could decipher the crumbled list in his fist.
He hung up as I reached for the butter, his eyes studying the biscuit and cookie dough products before he said he couldn't find the pie crust his sweetie needed.
I helped him look, a man better suited for veterans' day parades in his windbreaker; a man that brings to mind words like Saving Private Ryan and the Greatest Generation.
When we both failed to find the right crust, he reassured me with a wink and a nod that it wasn't the first time he couldn't find what she was looking for. And something about the tenderness in his voice told me they'd share a laugh over it later, after dinner, while she complained cheerfully to and about her beloved, retracing a dance that makes up years well spent.