By Sean Johnson
I see you by the snack cakes, aisle nine, opposite “Chips and Dip, Saltines.” I fill my shopping cart with TV dinners, steals at 90 cents. The woman next in line is fishing coupons from her purse as you walk through the aisles of the grocery store as if this were an art, a model for some European line, cat-walking through the produce now (surveillance mirrors tell all). You fondle melons, checking peaches, pears, as music, soft, plays overhead—“I Fall In Love Too Easily.” It’s true. I stare for hours, it seems, a boy hearing a call beyond the plums, beyond the daily fare.
