The shopping cart squeaked with slow grating complaint to a stop. And there he stood, corroded, in the cruel glare of the dairy case. He considered. He agonized, drawn-out and pitiful, while a girl in a sun dress screeched by in a petty search for the cookie shelf. He weighed options, scratching his temples, upon which a greasy sausage-casing sweat was breaking out in spite of the refrigerator's steady cold roar.

A young couple reached past him for a wheel of something French, sighing and giggling like God's own blessed imbeciles as their soft unwrinkled bird fingers collided. They ambled away, hand in hand on their hunk of lactic pretension, tittering inconsequential double entendres as they u-turned into the pasta aisle. Filthy wretches! He knew from the glint of the boy's eye that he was a cheater (and worse, an apologetic sniveler after the fact) and his woman, from the bloated, widening run in her stocking, a slouch. He took sick joy in glaring after them, for he was augur of the lonely damnation that awaited them all, a premonition reeking of sweat, unwashed dishes, and spilt ejaculate. He chuckled a little with glee as pure as gold.

Finally, when one by one the shoppers had bled out of the empty aisle, he extended his hand toward the molding vanitas. His grimy fingers lingered, over Colby jack--feta--Tillamook cheddar--Stilton--Muenster--Mascarpone--Havarti--Gouda--Boursin--Brie--Vacherin du Haut-Doubs. At last he snatched up a lurid neon hundred-pack of American singles--unsealed it with relish, stuffed one between his rubbery lips--hurled down the remaining ninety-nine into his shopping cart, with a grunt of effort.

--

'Sir,'� quailed the timid cashier, 'there's something... orange on your face.'�

'Fuck you,'� he said.

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