The cashier’s chipped purple nail polish and the crumpled collar

of her shirt hiding roman numbers tattooed on her neck. A child

begging for some tooth-annihilating candy. Asparagus, always

asparagus; April is sweet and promises better raspberries.

A bottle of red wine rolling on the conveyor belt, rolling, rolling,

rolling. Shiny Mary Janes in the shadow of white lace. Gossip

blurted out over potato chips and hummus, urgent, because

someone’s sister is now dating a Cancer Sun and Aries Rising

with his Mars in Leo, can you believe it? A girl reading a book,

her eyes on a page where the printer gave up before spewing up ink

in thick black letters. The cashier asking a colleague for the

chocolate croissant's code. Magazines stacked next to packs

of gum, promoting a renown chef’s recipe for Pad Thai and the

newest miracle foods. The fresh pack of strawberries I carefully chose,

plump and red, and—the eggs I forgot for the hundredth time.