The general store in my town has two sliding doors. When the children get muddy at the river they will press their lips against the glass. One will wave at the sensor so the smears swish back and forth.
I tend to enter up through the basement; there is a buried door on Bench street. I come in slow, my knees bent, with an eye on the bakery counter.
I come in the evenings. When the store’s empty.
To start, I position myself behind the cashews. They use non-reflective packaging. Still, the cooler sends bright flayed light against my boots.
I whisper: to remind me: not to disturb: my surroundings. A clear piece of meat will vanish at the sight of a marker, pen, paint. If I don’t, at some point, I have learned, make my way through the condiments, I will not bring home anything at all, capture. I place my gloves on Yetti’s mustard’s allegiance too soon and push aside, as softly as you would reeds, any ketchup’s claims of certification. I have lost boots in monotype overripe curry factors.
And this is before cuisine. I have waited out daylongs as [redacted] finish after curfew. I have said to my wife, often in a curved biased hiss, that if it weren’t for tightening cellophane over a fist the way she does, the way I do, we might get every egg.
That is not to say we haven’t found our spots. Beneath the teas you will find a honeycomb of chromosome that cook alone without a bone. I have been on the tele when a butcher barreled out waving flares designed to attract geese. You have to be quiet, the interior of a blanket quiet, as he makes the cuts.