In the grocery store, I see the woman who blames all the world’s violence and ineptitude on men. “If they’d just let us do it,” she used to say, ten years ago, even eight, before her sweet choir director husband died of bladder cancer caused by industrial pollution no one yet can prove, and/or herbicide run-off into groundwater and stream. Back then she had more energy and stamina but she never lost her anger and conviction, not even in grief. Almost all politicians are idiots to her, and she’s probably right about that and about the sex trade. But she’s tired and I can see she’s forgotten what she was looking for in the butter and eggs aisle, yogurt, cheese, orange juice. She’s looking around for what she wants, what she came for. “If they’d just let the women do it we’d all be better off.” Pudding cups, cookie dough. We move our carts to let a man through. “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m just reading the prices.”