giraffe snacks
I pick my groceries according to weight, since I have to walk home with them. Men on the other hand, I pick according to who will take me home. In my twenties, I was taken home by many a dude at the toothpaste-scraping income level; struggling would-be musicians who razored open the tube to scrape out every last bit cavity-fighting formula. Groceries and love can get expensive on different levels.
A bearded sensitive type asks me where the brewers yeast is. We’re in the bin isle. It’s littered with giraffe mascotted notes that read, “No grazing.” Giraffes are known for compulsive and excessive snacking, apparently. He scoops yeast into bags brought from home and I move onto the next isle.
I’m stuck in front of broth. I could make my own but I don’t want to lug an entire chicken home. Besides, this is the coop and meats are frowned upon, relegated to a small shelf in the freezer section. Maybe they don’t even carry a full-sized chicken. Bearded boy turns the corner and avoids eye contact. We move like independent silos as if a prolonged gaze would insinuate a committed partnership. I want to check out the canned goods but he is there. Damn. I linger and ponder bouillon. It’s easy but such a boring short cut.
I choose chicken broth. He moves on.
Tags: Creative Writing