Grocery cart primed with a Clorox wipe, thirteen item list to conquer.
I blaze a trail through unfamiliar territory, a Kroger fallen to the wrong side of the elitist schmucks around me. Aisle signs and indifferent employees in smocks are the only guideposts on my quest for dill pickle relish. Bread. The golden elixir of immunity defense yogurt, so my final four scenes do not fall prey to fever or explosive remnants of said pickle relish.
Matrons chase me with their free samples-skewered wienies-unsuccessful in their attempt to eat the clock until I can return to my novel. My hero is dodging aspen trees. My heroine is screaming. No way Bea Arthur is taking me down.
I hadn't anticipated the holiday aisle. Housewives loiter, foreign tongues vaulting to the corralled black and orange balloons overhead. Through the store's sound system "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" assaults my ears.
Yes, I do.