Cameras pointed archly at the Entrance, at the Exit, aimed inside, outside. Glass doors spread apart, closed, spread apart, into music cut off by a public health announcement. Directly left was Produce, where someone felt tomatoes, something olive-hued on their head. It looked military-issue. It had two glass eyeholes and a snout.
The custodian walked down Canned Food behind an autoscrubber, throttle on, hands full, around clearance merchandise, around nocturnal shoppers, met the other custodian operating the other autoscrubber with a two finger salute, earbuds banging raggaeton, broken mask hanging off one ear.
Single mote of dust aloft, the unforshadowed sneeze. Aerosolized droplets bloomed, less than a micron in size, not seen or felt by the human eye, as an elderly man sidestepped the autoscrubber, turned the corner and walked right through it. His daughter had helped him with the shopping all year, but he got weird cravings at odd times: sardines at breakfast, low-sugar vanilla bean ice cream at lunch, sourdough bread with butter and raspberry jam at supper, caesar salad for a midnight snack. He added sardines and smoked oysters to his basket and went to Frozen, then to Baked, and on his way to check-out selected a jar of organic raspberry jam.
The cashier wore latex gloves, a mask, safety glasses and a visor, asked if he would like a bag for his purchase, assumed he was tapping, swiveled the card machine around to face him.
“I would like one, please,” he said, paid cash.
“I like your accent.”
“There’s not much left of it,” he said, pocketing the change. He smiled but she couldn’t see it.
“Sanitizer?”
“Please.” He held out his hands where the plexi ended. The cashier sprayed the cold stuff on his palms and he rubbed it in. The glass doors parted. It was starting to rain.
At home he rinsed romaine lettuce in a colander and chopped the leaves into bitesize pieces, poured dressing, added his homemade sourdough croutons, bacon bits and grated parmesan, watching his hands do it through the infection gateway: conjunctiva, cornea, aqueous humor.
Throbbing red touched an edge of the kitchen window. It was late November. The neighbor had put up his lights. A Basset Hound came into the room. At his elbow the small radio played. The speaker said something about Brexit in a language that had died and been raised from the dead. With water he swallowed a dose of metformin, then milled pepper over the salad and ate leisurely as it gained entry to cell membrane ACE2, distributed throughout the anterior eye. As he washed the bowl, spike protein started binding to cell receptors. He pet his dog.
Days went by. Days in which he felt more and more lethargic.
The custodian walked down Canned Food behind an autoscrubber, throttle on, hands full, around clearance merchandise, around nocturnal shoppers, met the other custodian operating the other autoscrubber with a two finger salute, earbuds banging raggaeton, broken mask hanging off one ear.
Single mote of dust aloft, the unforshadowed sneeze. Aerosolized droplets bloomed, less than a micron in size, not seen or felt by the human eye, as an elderly man sidestepped the autoscrubber, turned the corner and walked right through it. His daughter had helped him with the shopping all year, but he got weird cravings at odd times: sardines at breakfast, low-sugar vanilla bean ice cream at lunch, sourdough bread with butter and raspberry jam at supper, caesar salad for a midnight snack. He added sardines and smoked oysters to his basket and went to Frozen, then to Baked, and on his way to check-out selected a jar of organic raspberry jam.
The cashier wore latex gloves, a mask, safety glasses and a visor, asked if he would like a bag for his purchase, assumed he was tapping, swiveled the card machine around to face him.
“I would like one, please,” he said, paid cash.
“I like your accent.”
“There’s not much left of it,” he said, pocketing the change. He smiled but she couldn’t see it.
“Sanitizer?”
“Please.” He held out his hands where the plexi ended. The cashier sprayed the cold stuff on his palms and he rubbed it in. The glass doors parted. It was starting to rain.
At home he rinsed romaine lettuce in a colander and chopped the leaves into bitesize pieces, poured dressing, added his homemade sourdough croutons, bacon bits and grated parmesan, watching his hands do it through the infection gateway: conjunctiva, cornea, aqueous humor.
Throbbing red touched an edge of the kitchen window. It was late November. The neighbor had put up his lights. A Basset Hound came into the room. At his elbow the small radio played. The speaker said something about Brexit in a language that had died and been raised from the dead. With water he swallowed a dose of metformin, then milled pepper over the salad and ate leisurely as it gained entry to cell membrane ACE2, distributed throughout the anterior eye. As he washed the bowl, spike protein started binding to cell receptors. He pet his dog.
Days went by. Days in which he felt more and more lethargic.
Written by Dustin Cole
Run the Bead is out September 4th
Run the Bead is out September 4th
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