Note: I wrote this little sprint in Australia, just putting it up now.
He goes to the grocery store without shoes. His roughed-up heels and callused toes hitting up against the cold-shiny linoleum. We shop. I smell the belly of produce, gripping it, touching it, picking each piece with a purpose. He digs his dirty fingers into piles and grabs what he touches, nonchalantly tossing his picks into plastic. We slide on–pushing our screwed-up, loose-wheeled cart to the butcher. He takes a number and bites my neck–just close enough to smell him. His aged-cologne-fresh-sweat-skin mixing with his old-wheatbix-and-milk-breath.
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