We meet in the kitchen, especially in the evenings when the chances are high that we’ll find each other there.

My oldest granddaughter, my new roomie, is usually already present. If she hears me moving about, she joins me. We visit, share a hug and a kiss, and giggle about the happenings of the day.

But we both know where this is headed.

One reaches for the gallon, the other for two glasses.

Our system is simple and civilized: no one drinks the last of the milk without issuing a restock warning. Peace is preserved that way.

The trouble begins when there is only an inch left at the bottom.

We both see it.

We lock eyes.

A silent stare down follows.

Two responsible adults stand before the refrigerator, staring at what remains, neither willing to be the one who crosses the line.

We both know what this really means.

The Infamous Milk Shortage Penalty is now in play.

Who let it get down that far without ordering more milk?