I mean you, the middle-aged man wearing yoga pants with “DIVA” stenciled on your ass who was searching for the perfect batch of wild onions
As batches of freshly spritzed wild onions tumbled to the dirty floor of the Kroger that always smells of sour milk—spilled somewhere, everywhere but never mopped up—you were undeterred, laser-focused on your goal.
I had no idea what your criteria were, but they must have been fierce as you tore through the angled, shoulder-height shelf. In your movements, I saw the Swedish Chef, though the screaming gibberish only resounded between your ears.
Your grocery shopping, which resembled someone turning a compost pile, went on for *literally* two minutes. Unable to look away, I watched. After you scooped up the batches from the floor and stuffed them back on the shelf, you saw me looking, and snapped, “What?”
I had hesitated selecting plums and pears, wondering how many of both you’d let roll around the seemingly never mopped linoleum. I’d guess it was my face, which frequently has a mind of its own, that made you snap. But before I could say anything, you were rummaging through the kale. And by “rummaging,” I mean “making it rain” that superfood. There were many things I would have said, if you only had the ears to hear.
But I forewent fruit this trip as you, Mr. Cross-Contamination, added unknown “spices” to the salads of unsuspecting shoppers.