I'm fucking the boy who delivers pizzas to our house every Tuesday. He's a senior; he turned legal about six months into the affair. When he comes I get it and give him a tip of breast at the door - I know how voracious he is - and a twenty that has a little something extra written on its borders: the time and place of our next tryst. Then I set the piping hot pie on the kitchen table before my family: the kids baring their teeth, brandishing knives and forks, and my husband saying a prayer.
You must be new. I'm the village poet which entitles me to free milk and meat for the rest of my life. Let me look under... I mean at... your name tag. Doris? You remind me of my third wife. She bled out on the operating table after the last time we made love. I don't need no goddamn bag. Take your nice day and shove it way up inside that cash drawer of yours. You know the one between your legs. Doris. And by the way, that ring on your left hand reminds me of my toilet bowl. Doris.
Young man, could you possibly sneer a little louder please! Yes, I'm old and I have a hard time finding my things and I'm not good at maintaining the stream and I unintentionally fart in the faces of all those who tailgate me through the canned food aisles and I need help entering my numbers and I'm always pushing the wrong buttons and I don't worship young shits like you who are just doing this to make a few bucks in the summer with your hair blacker than a night in the ghetto and your gross lack of stomach!
I been trapped in this damned supermarket four days now. Been sleeping under the yellow squash in produce. That's why my pants are all wet. You should see what goes on in this place when the lights are turned off. Tomatoes like you wouldn't believe chasing my ass all through dairy. Lobsters in the pharmacy. Pork sausage stogies in their claws. Peppers singing in the rain with bottles of shampoo. And every time I'm just about to step through the automatic door some hula hoop grabs me from behind and drags me back into the unsanitary orgy.