Adventures in shopping

The descent down the escalator and the thick smell of the refrigerators enters my nose. Any thoughts of browsing the inventory are decimated with the original mission goal crystal clear; get in, get the job done, get out. I check my list, then begin skating around the couples and the doddering elderly, heading to the first objective. The moment of placing the fruits into my dirty little gray plastic basket is marked by inexplicable babble from the faceless employees in front of the microphone somewhere. I can't tell if it's male or female coming through, but when it ends it returns to what I'd previous blocked out; easy listening. The 90s pop comes through and infects, and for a moment I say the lyrics in my mind while scanning the shelves.

I'm a fool. I'd momentarily lost sight of the mission.

Back on target, I continue my dance with weaving around slack jawed consumers. I am already aware that I'm doing to well. They will suspect me. I must convince them I am one of them, lest they pounce. I see the tea and position myself carefully. Strategically I am slightly blocking an old woman, then move out of her way. It works, or at least I believe it does. I have to believe. I have to succeed. I have to escape. My basket is complete, so escape I shall do.

They ambush me on the way out. Fruit cake. Two of them, one for 33% fruit and the other with 37%. There are no prices on the shelve, no way to know which is the better choice. They'd gotten me. I was caught, trapped in the thoughts on consumerism and paranoia.

I took the 37% and went for the checkout.