yesod shebhod
I stand in front of the tomatoes. Those look great, he says from over my shoulder, and reaches to get some too. I thought at first that you might be a plant, I say,
as if people are hired by the coop to talk up the produce, and as if he would have been one. We come across each other again among the bulk spices, then he leaves.
I notice a sheet of paper on the ledge, an intricate grocery list, and think it is probably his. I wait to go after him. I take long enough that I am still there
when he comes back for it. We see each other two more times. It’s just one of those days, I feel compelled to say to him, though I don’t quite know what I mean.
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