What if you can’t find a date on the food package you purchased at the market—the one that indicates it could be bad for you if you eat the package’s contents after the date has passed?

Should you take a chance and eat it? This is the question in . . .

Expiration Date

     It was a gorgeous, sunshiny August day in the beautiful, active adult community of Leisure Ranch, about thirty minutes from Sacramento. June Moses, seventy-two, sat at the kitchen table of her sprawling ranch house, engrossed in preparing a grocery list. George Moses, seventy, sauntered into the kitchen and moved to the large, white GE refrigerator across the room from her and opened the door. Grabbing a bag of salad from the vegetable tray, he flipped it over and then back again. Confused he didn’t find what he was looking for, he called out to June . . .

     “Hey, June. What’s the expiration date on this Asian salad mix you bought last week?”

     “Just look on the bag.”

     “I did, but I can’t find it.”

     “George, can’t you do anything for yourself?”

     “Come on! I’m just asking you to help me find the date. I’m not asking you to cook a full seven-course meal for me.”

     “Oh, about that. What do you want for dinner?”

     “Dinner? All I want is a salad for lunch. Dinner’s six hours away.”

     “Well, I’m going to the store and if you want something, you’ve got to tell me.”

     “First, you tell me where the expiration date is on this salad bag, so I know I won’t die if I eat it.”

     “George, George, my sweet, dear George. Nobody ever died from eating an expired bag of salad.”

     “There, you said it. It’s expired.”

     “No, I didn’t. You did.”

     “You wouldn’t care if I died, would you?”

     “Just don’t do it now. I’ve got to go to the store to get the things I need to make dinner.”

     “That’s all you care about . . . dinner, dinner, dinner. What if walk to the mailbox this afternoon and get run over by a car and die?”

     “That’s not going to happen.”

     “How do you know? We live in a senior community. Those crotchety old folks can’t see or hear. They don’t even slow down at stop signs. My demise could be at any time.”

     “Is your insurance policy paid up? And, more important, am I the beneficiary?”

     “Oh, don’t be cute, June. You’re making me angry.”

     “Then, maybe you’ll just have a heart attack from the stress and drop dead in front of me. Then I won’t have to worry about your dinner. I’ll just open a can of soup for me.”

     “There you go again. Just thinking about yourself. I don’t matter. Do I?”

     “Well, you did. But keep going on like this and you won’t.”

     “Are you threatening me again?”

     “Again? When have I ever threatened you?”

     “At the Wertheimer’s party two weeks ago.”

     “What do you mean? I don’t remember threatening you.”

     “When it’s convenient, you just forget.”

     “Right now, I want to forget you.”

     “See, another threat.”

     “That’s not a threat. That’s a comment.”

     “Threat, comment . . . whatever. You want me to die so you won’t have to be bothered by me ever again.”

     “Now that’s a thought. What is the value of your American Life Insurance policy?”

     “What?”

     “If I’m going to get rid of you, I need to know if it’s worth the effort.”

     “So get rid of me. I’m going to starve to death anyway.”

     “George, you’re thirty pounds overweight. It’ll take years before you starve to death.”

     “I can’t handle this anymore. I’m going to McDonald's for a burger and fries.”

     “Well, that’ll certainly kill you. What happened to the healthy salad you were going to eat for lunch?”

     “It expired.”

     “So you did find the expiration date on the package?”

     “Huh, no. That’s why I asked for your help in the first place.”

     “I’ve had it. I’m going to the store. Do you want anything?”

     “Yeah, a new bag of salad. And make sure it has an expiration date I can find.”

     “My, oh my. You certainly are a prize, George.”

     “What?”

     “Never mind.” I’ve got my shopping list. Now where are my car keys? “George, have you seen my car keys?”

     “They’re just where you left them. On the third hook from the right on the cabinet by the door to the garage. I have to remember everything for you. And you can’t even help me find the expiration date on a bag of salad.”

     “You don’t know when to quit, George. Do you?”

     “What are you talking about?”

     She shook her head in dismay, grabbed the keys from the hook and reached for the doorknob of the door to the garage. Grasping the knob, she looked back at George and 
blurted . . .

     “Go check our marriage license.”

     George seemed baffled. “Huh. What for?”

     “The expiration date.”

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.