Going home after work. The supermarket. Not my favorite store, my regular store, but the one right on the way home, because all I wanted was potatoes, eggs, and root beer. No reason to go out of my way; just get the stuff and go home.

Thus thought the entire working world: lines were four deep at every register, nine at express.

So, as I waited my turn I looked around and considered the social interaction of my fellow rush hour shoppers.

To my left (Rapid Express, No More Than 8 Items, Cash Only, Please), lawyers and financial advisors stared with glazed eyes at the covers of women's magazines with their impossibly perfect faces, all with varying shades of blonde hair Comparing them to their wives? Mistresses? Secretaries? Can't be done, chum - not without a resident cosmetology crew.

I turned to the right. Far away among the full-size order lines, was a high school classmate I hadn't spoken to since graduation, 18 years ago. She didn't come to the reuni...

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