at the market (fiction)

In the fruits and vegetables section, a man is lecturing a woman on how she should prepare green beans. His tone is parental and unforgiving. He sounds like a man who has tasted far too many green beans he didn't care for. The woman looks like she'd like to disappear through the floor. Her humiliation is obvious. I walk over and hand her a cucumber. We exchange a look. I turn to walk away. Behind me, I hear him ask, "Do you know her?" I turn back. "She doesn't know me," I say, "but I know you."

An elderly woman is reaching for baked goods on the next aisle. I hand them down to her. She thanks me and we move in opposite directions. I'm old enough now to imagine myself at her age. What challenges will I face, if I'm still alive?

I skip the candy section and head into dairy. I'm a sucker for cheese. And right on cue, there's the samples lady. Cranberry Stilton? Yes, please. Goat's Milk? Oh my, yes. Aged Cheddar? You betcha. And we'll need some of those crackers. And wine. Grapes. Maybe pears. And prosciutto.

Should I get some chicken breasts? I'll make Chicken Divan. Broccoli too, then. Let me zip back to produce ... whoa! What's this? Yellow crime tape! And there's a body on the floor ... oh my gosh, it's him! What is that sticking out of his ... Shit! Is that a CUCUMBER???

Yeah, maybe I don't need broccoli. You know what? I don't need any of this. I can shop later in the week. I have leftover spaghetti in the freezer.

Well, maybe just the wine. And the Stilton.

And these crackers.