The Sport
The not-so-melodious voice in the audiobook lectured through the headphones. It was talking, but she wasn’t listening. She needed the distraction. Maybe later, she’ll rewind and concentrate or maybe not. She was out playing her favourite sport.
Her home was a trap. It was a love-hate thing. The beige walls, the plebeian Ikea furniture, the memories trapped in pictures on the wall from a distant past, the windows which opened to views of more lifeless buildings. She had carefully woven every thread into a splendid mesh, for herself and now she wanted out.
First came the fruit and vegetable aisle. Perfectly stacked greens, yellows, reds, browns and oranges. Leaves packed in square plastics. Not the slightest blot of dirt on potatoes or carrots.
They have the money to grow these in the lab where farmers in spotless white lab coats would delicately harvest them, she tells herself for the umpteenth time. And petty peculiarities would make these land in large bins.
She had tried to dumpster dive once, but — They guard their junk better than their stores.
Not many takers in this aisle. An old man selecting round potatoes — You need to eat more than just potatoes, sir. A young man selecting green limes — Hmm, the quintessential cocktail ingredient. A well-dressed lady deliberating over avocados — The good fat that crossed oceans in a cold container. You millennial! Ordinary people!
She has become immune to the nauseating feeling that stiffens her stomach, whenever she walks the meat aisle. She was never a vegetarian, but endless refrigerators stacked with animals, make vivid images come to life. She counts them. Hundreds, if not thousands of them, skinned, sliced, diced, lay here; some marinated, some vacuum-packed and some spiced, ready to fulfil their lives’ purpose — be the protein on someone’s plate, some inane conformist building muscle mass for social capital.
She picks up a fish fillet, a whole chicken and some minced meat. All on discount. Expiring today. Good deal. They’ll survive.
Avoiding brushing elbows with people in this aisle, she looks straight into their baskets. Chicken breasts, ham, beef mince, What’s it going to be today? Thai curry? Smörgås or Meatballs? Two large Salmon fillets. You are definitely inviting people. Can’t help but socialise, huh? Chorizo, Salchichón. Your life is lightly spiced.
Colourful juices, milk, milk substitutes, yoghurt, fruity flavours, unending refrigerators. Again. Many flock here but nothing is amusing enough in their baskets. Flour, cereals, bottled fizz in all colours, canned food, oriental food, coffee and tea from continents far away, paper to wipe your butt, paper to wipe your kitchen spills. And finally air-filled bags of junk and more freezers. This is where the aces hover.
Three tubs of ice cream, two frozen pizzas, four sausage rolls. You need to watch that ballooning waistline. Frozen lasagne and veggies. Healthy lifestyle, Ha! Good luck with that. Two baskets with chips, nachos, soda, ice cream, pizza. Hmm, binging on Netflix? Or Inviting friends?
The lecture still continues in her headphones. She is not listening. She is judging. Laughing at how the ones who have the means to dominate others, humans, plants and animals, all in the name of survival, no — to preserve ‘our way of life’, this socioeconomic superiority that is so threatened. Immobilise them. Voices ricochet in her head. Echo chamber. Isn’t this meditative?
She walks to the self-checkout counter. She knows that cameras are scrutinising her moves. She scans one item, then the next and skips the one after. And repeats the ritual. The sport of weekly grocery shopping, the highlight of her empty existence in a cold dark foreign lonely world.
