Work finished early, and I was a gloomy little cloud, so I stepped out into the sunny day for a walk. The air smelled like hot dogs, the expensive made-to-be-grilled kind rather than the wiggly Ball Parks that my grandmother used to boil. It wasn't as bad as that sounds, but I would have enjoyed things more if they hadn't been so meaty.
I had barely eaten in the preceding 24 hours, so I decided to search for some food. The city seemed happy, with lots of people smiling and enjoying the warm day. I walked past Tartine, past the restaurant where Scott and I had his birthday dinner, and into Bi-Rite. The market was moderately stuffed with park-goers buying picnic supplies. I picked up a jar of Paul Newman pasta sauce, two pints of ice cream (salted caramel, balsamic strawberry), and a container of frozen cookie dough. My favorite Bi-Rite checkout boy beckoned me to his register. I like to think that I am his favorite customer, as a supermarket fantasy sort of thing.
"How are you today?" he asked.
This is the kind of formality that people trot out, usually expecting a simple "good" or "fine." If those responses had been accurate, I would have said so. Instead, I twisted the right side of my face and said, "Not great."
"I'm sorry," he said, pausing as he held the cookie dough. "These aren't going to make it to the oven, are they?"
Of course not. I laughed a tiny bit, he wished me a better day, and I walked home. Sometimes leaving the house is a success; today was one of those days.
I had barely eaten in the preceding 24 hours, so I decided to search for some food. The city seemed happy, with lots of people smiling and enjoying the warm day. I walked past Tartine, past the restaurant where Scott and I had his birthday dinner, and into Bi-Rite. The market was moderately stuffed with park-goers buying picnic supplies. I picked up a jar of Paul Newman pasta sauce, two pints of ice cream (salted caramel, balsamic strawberry), and a container of frozen cookie dough. My favorite Bi-Rite checkout boy beckoned me to his register. I like to think that I am his favorite customer, as a supermarket fantasy sort of thing.
"How are you today?" he asked.
This is the kind of formality that people trot out, usually expecting a simple "good" or "fine." If those responses had been accurate, I would have said so. Instead, I twisted the right side of my face and said, "Not great."
"I'm sorry," he said, pausing as he held the cookie dough. "These aren't going to make it to the oven, are they?"
Of course not. I laughed a tiny bit, he wished me a better day, and I walked home. Sometimes leaving the house is a success; today was one of those days.
Labels: crabbiness
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