"63 cents," he says more to himself than me, eyes scanning the prices below the milk.

"63 cents," I ask, curious, knowing it isn't the price of the milk lined up in pretty white rows before me, four dollars and 63 cents maybe.

"Milk was 63 cents a gallon when I was 8."

I wonder how he remembers but he seems disinclined to sharing and I don't press.

Later after dinner, he starts talking out of the blue. 

"The summer I was 8, I'm pretty sure it was summer, I was wearing shorts.  Mama sent me to the store for milk."

I nod my head so he knows I'm with him, not wanting to interrupt.

"We only had 63 cents.  We'd dug it out from between the couch cushions and down in the lining of Mama's purse."

I can imagine it perfectly, 30 long years ago, his little boy with a lopsided haircut self and his skinny scarecrow of a Mama, digging for coins to buy some milk.

"Most were just pennies so she put them in a little purse and told me not to lose them or we wouldn't have milk." 

A lot of responsibility for a little guy, I think but don't say, I'm sure he knows.

"I headed out on my bike, so proud she had faith in me.”

Little boy smiling...flying down the windy, country roads, kicking gravel back off his tires.

“I had one of those messenger bags on the front.  I used to go everywhere on that bike.  Leave at 7 in the morning and not get home until the sun was going down. Won it selling Boy Scout Scout-A-Rama tickets."

I wish he'd hurry, just spit it out, not expecting a happy ending.

“There was a big mud puddle in front of the doors of the Tom Thumb. I couldn't resist it, had mud halfway up my shins. Grabbed the milk, and counted out the coins myself, praying to God the whole time I hadn't lost one. I hadn't.”

“That's good,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief, thinking he's just reminiscing. But he continues.

“Back outside, through the mud puddle. Splashed mud all the way up to the carton in my arms. I didn't much care, I had it and that was all that mattered. Thought I'd find someone's hose on the way home and rinse it off. But that mud puddle was too damn tempting.”

“Of course, you were 8,” I reply.

He tells me of securing the milk in the messenger bag, riding over to the puddle, around the puddle, through it slowly one time. Not noticing his bag inching open, milk exposed as he rode a fair distance back to get a running start for his grand hoorah straight through it. Until it was too late, puddle deeper than he thought, jolting the bike, the milk thrown out of the bag, white rivers running through the puddle of mud.

I can feel the misery of this moment without a word from him, it radiates out towards me. The scared little boy with the grown up fears peeking out as he looks over at me. It's written all over his face.

“63 Cents,” he says, holding out a handful of coins to me. “63 cents.”