Nobody carries all the shopping in from the car in one trip to save time. A second trip takes perhaps a minute. The one trip takes longer than that once you count the stop at the front door, where you stand with four bags cutting into each hand and try to work the key with the hand that is also holding the milk, and then with an elbow, and then, briefly, with your teeth. The minute you saved is spent there, with interest, and the eggs are the deposit. What the one trip buys is not time. It is a small verdict. Going back would mean the load was more than you could carry, and the point of the whole performance, staged on an empty driveway for an audience of nobody, is to find out that it wasn’t.