Lost in the Supermarket
Lit Up: Mad March Microfiction
Seriously? A song like this has no business coming on while I’m actually in the supermarket, trying to impersonate a normal human being. While I’m trying not to think. I put the Cheerios down and wipe tears off my face. Fabulous.
Focus on the grocery list. Next is bread. After cereal and bread — I glance at the list — pasta. Then another item and another, until maybe I find the missing ingredient for being a competent, independent adult, living the dream. Then I’ll just spend my days making nutritious meals, washing dishes, going to bed responsibly, waking up — alone, and work, work, working at a job that sucks out of my bones every ounce of desperate joy I have left. Until I’m dead and buried and dust —
“Miss? Need some help?” An older gentleman peers into my face. His eyes are so concerned, I sit down on the floor and cry harder. I cry until I overhear someone say to call an ambulance. Probably time to stop.
“I’m not psychotic.” Sobs break from my throat as I stand up. Two employees are among the audience I’ve attracted. “It’s your depressing-ass store. What’s with this song?!”
“Lost in the Supermarket” has stopped playing, however, and “Friday I’m in Love” is already midway through. A spark of humor lights up the hollow cavern of my chest. A love song? Perfect. Better to appear heartbroken than crazy — it’s more relatable. I can’t help giving a tiny laugh, just a breath. The lady standing nearest me flinches.
“I can’t finish, I’m sorry…” I motion to the cart, and an employee nods, taking it.
I leave quickly, walking into the springtime sunshine as if everything is fine, as if the store just doesn’t carry what I need.
But that’s true, of course.
It doesn’t.
