The Store That Wouldn't Let Time Pass

The Store That Wouldn't Let Time Pass

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KURIOUS: Strange and Unusual Stories

Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.

Let's get into it. No one's ever made it through

a Thursday without hanging out in my produce aisle, even

if just to cut through on the way to the registers.

It's two forty and the Hunter Crisps catch the dull

ceiling light dotted in waxy reds and golds. I pushed

the cut slow, careful not to jostle the display. Mom

and I spent a whole Saturday building six months ago.

Missess Patetel always arrives on Thursdays, rain or shine. The

kind of customer my manager says, you build the store

solar round. The overhead music skips you. I can see

clearly now. Radio is a check out pop and hiss.

Someone at the bakery count yells for more wax paper.

Laughter from the snack table right by the pears. Missess

Pateel clicks her tongue the same soft pill I'd sound

every week, waiting for me to finish my neat row,

hands folded in front of a cardigan like she's posing

for a family photo. Hunter Crisps today. Yes, she asks

it every time, as if she expects a different answer

than they came in this morning, or best pick we've

had this mone Honest. She's got her list out, items,

box and checked. You have that little step still from me, mijo,

She laughs before I've even answered, So of course I

fetch it, which earns me a gentle scold. You must

be tired of my fussing. Her gold bi angles jingle

as she wist two apples with Surgeon's fingers. She recites

her usual redder and sweeter, but I like just a

whisper of sire, you see, I always always not customers

sweep past my coworker loose waves an apple over his headed,

liver is missing again, and attends, cursing quietly under his breath.

Normal orchard market chaos. Fifteen minutes drift by, I duck

into the back for cardboard. The air is full of

that refrigerated hum, the crackle of a prizing gun going off,

and then silence as I wheel out more honey crisps

head duck low. Missus Sptel returns, mijo, you have those

steps all ready for me. I freeze the cut's from

bumping mushin. She holds her list in the exact same

way as before even til it's her body at the angle.

Only she uses a sort of side wi scot you.

I start just a how off syllable because I feel

her expectant smile and everything around us is still. She's

even repeating the line redder or sweeter. But I like

just a whisper of sire. You see the catence matches

the smile, the tinkle of those spangles on her wrist.

We do the whole script. She jots down apples on

the list, acts after my mother, how she tell how

my knees. Wish I had her recipe for chicken soup,

grabs the two apples she'd already but for hadn't. My

memory stutters and strolls off, humming for an instant. My

throat closes up, not dread exactly something sire behind the

robes panic that's searching for a name. It doesn't know,

a trick of memory, probably where daydreams stuck on reaply

retail does that sometimes, But as Missus Patel disappears, is

too precise, too uncanny. I find myself krupin and cut

so hot, my fingers going on blinking like a bust

to TV through the sound system. The songer starts the

produce aisle as exactly as it was. If I didn't

have the cardboard scraps in my hand, I could swear

the first conversation never happened. Chet's atorch should mark its

start with my hands pressing the glass in the US window,

searching for condensation or some finger smudged message from last night.

I've made the ride so many times I know exactly

who'll get on at each stop. Pierrea, the third grader

who wipes her nose on her sleeve and always clutches

art projects drawn in creola bold as boards at Colfax,

and third mister Dewan with his red and black walking stick,

never needs help with the single step, but always humors

the driver's offer. The neighborhood drips color, even under gray cloud,

covertile brick facing and two tall grass at the lot

near the high school fence. By the time Utchard Market

comes into view, my pulse slows. The store looms mural

of peaches rising above the entryway, a hand painted smiley

sun dangling baskets of faux grapevines. If the old South

Street Library is the city's brain, this place is its

Stomacher place for old folks to swap bargains. Soccer Monster

power Walk teems to giggle into their herd is by

a freezer case. Lewis and Germy meet me at the

slying glass door. Germans already in a wrestling match with

his apron strings it's always backwards, while Lewis complained about

his fantasy football league, which as usual he's definitely winning

this year. There's a shep down for keys, a slap

on the shoulder, and the shared ritual of trying to

clock in exactly on the ire never a minute late.

The break room is tight, filled with stale coffee, outdated

regional food maps and a corkboard that's mor Tham Betham.

Would we do Thursday snack table? First? Big baskets of

cheese cubes, mystery crackers, paper cups of some new refreshing

soda were supposed to promote with signs in half Spanish,

half manageries lad he's got balloons to tie at the registers.

We joke about whole take which regular who's got chess?

Graham put to day me who's were filling the grinolae

German and the bets on how many sample cups will

vanish before noon. German laughs at everything, even at my

invisible man jerks, where I stand next to the broocoly

for five minutes to see if anyone notices. Lewis always

does first get back to work. Ghost chess, grand posts

really mister Victor Ray's ninety three and shop as attack,

except during his muttered arguments with himself about French defense

or Rayloupis openings. He plays speed chess on a batted

green board jam between grapefruits and the nkept display, slapping

pieces like it's a tournament. I want pairs softer this week, neo,

he said, sliding a rook, not like last time when

you gave me rocks. His Spanish is half joke, half complaint.

I usually smuggle him when extra sandwich from the Delhi

as a peace offering, pretending the manager special is a

secret just for him. From under is newsb cap twinkly

eye search for bargains, sometimes for a granddaughter, I Dad exists,

sometimes maybe for another game. The flower Lady, miss says Hanson,

spends twenty minutes arguing with herself about which chilips to buy,

holding up each color against a mural long face, working

over invisible computations. She's theatrical, picking petals like questions. She's

also the only regular who knows my actual name who

uses it anyway. She tells me stories of the real Sweden,

which seems to shift depending on the flowers in season.

The Trantwins, six years old, is at cross legged by

the mango display, saying theme songs from whatever cartoon they

watched that morning. Their father watches resigned as I chase

them from end kept to endcap. But I don't really mind.

The happiness is how to like someone shaking a snow

globe and letting flowers loose down Aisle eight store rituals

pin the day together. Thursday's bell ringing for new side

of batches from the bakery. Srmine as spiring stand up

turns each ring into a comedy routine Fresh Bread, Get

it Hot. Three out of five dentists approve the manager

a mess mc quaid and cists on a positive energy scrum.

After lunch, we circle up, clap our hands once, and

shout one team as if about to run a relay.

Orchard market. Isn't just my job, though I sometimes pretend

I'm above it. Its were appearance meet after school recitals,

retired teachers tray coupons, and volunteers host to try at

this fruit sample tables, where half the neighborhood lingers over

pineapple or some unusual berry. The isle's pulse light bulbs

bone slightly yellow at the edges, spells get cleaned with

the combination of bruf force and jerks. The birthday cake

samples attract crowds, and sometimes customers even leave flowers for

the cleaning staff at the infra desk. I'll admit sometimes

the routine grates. It's like being the background and some

one else's left stocking, smiling, bagging, shrugging through questions. No

one remembers asking. But some midshift Thursdays, when the store

hums with life in every one's voices, blend into a bright,

warm river. A look up and think how good it

feels to bel long so completely that you can almost disappear.

I'd have told you last week that nothing ever really

changed here. It isn't just missus, buttel I'm rolling cots

of pears to the front win chests. Grandpa Mista raises,

suddenly there itself checkouts, quinting at the scanner, holding his

two classic pears always two, always soft but not bruised,

and a dilly sandwich. There's a little issue with the

p l U coat. The scanner chirps. He grumbles, bags

the fruit himself for next week, real pairs compowder it,

pays with his coat pocket change, nods at the manager,

and leaves by the bakery door, sandwich tucked under his arm.

I head back for shrink wrap. When I glance at

the video monitor overhead, mostly checking if my shoelasses are out.

Mister Raise appears again, same coat, same step, sami, little

clutch of two pears, and at sandwich, except the sandwich

is held edge on exactly as before, same nervous shuffle,

like someone winding down a clock. This time he asks

letty at rogister five for a sample slice of cheddar.

As he rings up wherefore word the identical complaint about pears.

She rolls her eyes in my direction, mouthing old men right,

but at stjo vustackdon de javus. Ten minutes later, Miss

s Hanson midyeal of debate, stops, short, shakes her head

and goes back to praising yellow from purple, not forthinking

but reliving. She holds up two stems asks to you,

these look too eager for spring. I blink, remembering her

asking that exact question to Ms mcquaide, not five minutes ago.

Movements perfectly match, even the angle of a wrist. I

almost say something, but my coworkers don't notice anything odd.

German catches me, stirring in shrugs his expression, all you

spill something or forget? Whose tone for trash again? The

world ticks on, The intercom clicks another bell for bread.

Musak lurches into a soft ballat the harmonica, lip twisting

like a joke without a punch line. The market's noise

dolls around me. Why watch this? Three fifty to reges

past what's supposed to be peak Thursday. For a second,

it feels as though I'm looking through wavy glass. The

tip of my tongue tastes metal, and the honey crisps

glint wrong under the led. The clock flips and the

musuck resets. Everything locks back into regular. My hands keep shaking.

I drop a lemon and stare at it for too long,

waiting for a wrinkle in the yellow skin to do

something else. Pop a knee bruise in front of me,

shed compast anything to make what just happened less frightening.

But it just sets round and neat. On a hunch

or day. I return narrowly from break the next Thursday.

It's two forty seven when I lean on the apple crate,

pretending to reorganize A two fifty nine. Missus Pettelo is

by the dissing table, lists in hand, lips pursed. I

move the stepping stool to the back fridge, shove the

nearest hunnekers, crave four feet to the right, out of linement,

visible messy paton brake. She can't miss a three thirteen.

Missess Pattel approaches as always. The crate is returned to

its post, facing neat and true, polished, applestat maximal and bright.

My hands tingle. You have that step still, mijo. She

gestures at the air, as if the tools always kept

right where I placed it last week. Not a flicker

of confusion. She laughs, waves her lists, repeats redder, sweeter,

But I like just a whisper of sire. You see

my vision tunnels shipped poping too close, then too far

away the aisle twice. No sign that I moved the crate.

The stool stands where she's always used it. No sign

of the change. I test just Grandpa CKX lucky nearer

at two fifty eight, instead of hovering a cut in

front of the grave display to ask about the crossword,

hoping to derail his routine. Even offering this secret sandwich early,

he snarls distracted it later neo not now, But by

three fifteen he is back at the self check, sandwich

in hand, exact change the conversation and spoils right on schedule.

The same two pairs, the same scan er, the same

comment about last week's route. It's not just the people's

store events. Golwonki two mess McQuaid. Heypes a and prompty

bakery sample right at three zero. Those who try the

new muffins forget the flavor. By four zero, I string

up a flyer for salsa contest during what I now

think of as the ire. The flyer is gone up

for one and when I ask Lewis he stares at

me blankly, what contest? If it's another prank? Desperate, I

drag out the old digital recorder from lost and found

a batter, plastic stick, blaze back and fuzz but works.

At two fifty I hit record and talking to the mic.

It's Thursday, We're about nineteen minutes from posing, and I'm

going to try. My voice cracks as I speak. There's

traffic in the background. I mutter observations as three zero hits,

describing people missus, patel chess, grunt. But let's see if

I remember if this records, what playback after four zero

is a slick punch to the gut, must be up

to two fifty nine runs fine. Then the audio cuts

into statict until four one. The missing eyre is just

white hiss with a faint wobble. I watch the seconds

take by, but nothing's there to retrieve. The digital readits

gets whole minutes. Then my voice pops in mid sentence

with a crack leader. Don't know if any of this

is real or I try subtly drugging Letty from Urgister

five into this. Have you ever felt like people keep

repeating like conversations? Or Thursday's just sort of it. I

don't finish hating how my words trail off. She's patient,

plants both arms on the counter, staring her. Then she lasts,

you're on wig too much, Colebrew. I'll tell you what

if the chest guy comes through again, I'll hand him

a coupon and see what he does. But you're buying

lunch if you're on. We agree, and for a minute

I almost think she'll break the pattern. By the time

the iri ends, when nees bagged as pears and sand

whiches back to ring upgum and soda, as if we

never spoke at home that night. My fingers ache from

her heart have gripped the cart handles all day. I

jaw up sticky notes all over my dresser. Thursday three,

four p m. Do not trust routine, remember the loops.

By morning, the words feel paranoid. I stare at them,

wondering if I am pushing myself over the edge. Sleep deprived,

maybe our edging up to some diagnosis. No doctor will

name the next FLOSSI are add more checks. I wear

a purple T shirt, bright unmistakable under my apron instead

of the drut standardishue white polar in the mirror two fifty,

I see purple at my neck line. At th eat three,

I check again. It's still there is a stock Miller's Apples.

Customers drift by, locked in their familiar orbits. The store's

palette is bizarrely vivid, like someone tweaked the contrast and

couldn't quite match the blues and greens. Time seems to

thrumb hard to track, half stopatch, half movie reel. At

four one, after hustling to put away a stray case,

I sweep my hands across my chest and see uniform white.

My reflection in the window looks as it always has.

The purple T shirt is no longer on my body,

but folded neatly in my locker. The smell of stored

detergent in its fibers, as if it never left. My

memories of the color fade like smoke. Did I imagine it? Was?

It a different shirt altogether? I line up jars of honey.

I tap my name badge instinctively to remind myself who

I am. The badge feels unusually light. Announcements I make

during the iro clean upon Aisle three to sample bread

by the doughnut rack. A cashier break kneaded on forward

slide over everyone's heads. German's eye go shining from the

overhead flush of lights. His laugh becomes automatic lipstretching while

his hand stack cellery. If anyone catches my words, it's

just static face's sharp edge, then gently smoothing out, like

memory softening worn cotton. This last Thursday, I push hard,

try to leave the store at precisely three fifteen, fingers

on the icy door handle, fighting with the old antitheft mechanism.

The door is just too heavy, sticking, unyielding, while my

palm sweat and the sun on the concrete parking lot

winks through glass. I remind myself to breathe here and now,

real and safe. I press in, lean my shoulder, but

the meshline door with feels more like a picture of

a door than something that could open. I let go

in the motionless air feels suddenly danse around me. At

exactly four one, the door swishes open efferlessly, and German hollers, hey,

you heading out early clocks not even punched yet. His

laugh is high and brittle. I check the digital clock

twice that weaker resolved to leave my own bread combs

as sticky note, shoved under the hot chocolate packets in

the break room, I scribble if fun before four zero

and still here, I watch myself hide it there, counting

seconds to three zero, hot thumping like someone's knocking to

get out, during the hour, a slow time by ransking

my locker, nothing out of place, only my regular luncheon coat.

After four zero, the sticky note's gone, but when I

left the box there's a faint residue sticky glue as

slightly clean, a square where the paper sat, and a

pen on the counter, A shade lighted than before, as

though it's discharging faster than it should have. My phone

two A three eight I take a photo of missus Battel,

her face soft, a little out of focus as she

last at her own joke at four levens, crawling through

the camera roll. The image is a gray block box

with a time stamp between two perfectly normal photos of apples.

I try to show Lewis, but the PHO door crashes

the gallery app Dude, don't break your pawon over produce,

he jokes, not even glancing at the screen. Sleep will

not take me easy. After that, I wake it two

forty five a m skin electric, my heart pounding. I

remember the store completely empty, not closed exactly, but reshaped

shadows stretching where customers voices echo voices I know too well,

repeating Coller's hum ere they can cold and hollow customers

on the other side of the glass wave their faces

blowed watching or maybe lost themselves. I jerk upright my

malteste of apples and dust. The following Thursday as a

clock stutter is towards three fifty five. I'm bagging lettuce.

When I blink, my hands are suddenly full of cantalope.

I don't recall moving aisles. My uniform feels prickly, sleeves

a size too tight. I try to retrace ten minutes.

I have no memory. I ask German if I such

stations with him, but he just laughs. You asking me man,

your zonning out hard to day? What else has gone missing?

On my walk home? Glass crunches under my sneakers. There's

a sticky note in my pocket, half aided ink bled

to the corners. Remember the apples. It doesn't match my handwriting.

I sniff it as though it will give up some secret,

but it just smells like produce, sweat and lemon hand soap.

I used to think I could solve any store problem

with enough duct tape, polite conversation, or by waking up

fifteen minutes earlier. But after too many vanished diers and

bleeding member's foone fertoles with nothing in them but artificial

shadows notes that a raised but not perfectly. I'm less

sure there is nothing left of that invisible comfort I

used to cherish. Thursday at Orchard Market is neither real

nor fakere space between shells where the world clicks off

and something starts again and lately, I suspect if I

do nothing, thou won't just lose time, I'll lose a

part of me that still fights to return. Lewis start

was sinking. Some out of tune pops on by the

great fruit stacks, sharp enough of the sound to cut

across a produce section, but nobody seems bothered except me.

I'm not totally sure where the whistling end, and the

overhead playlist assumes my brain still stuck on the gap,

that hollow, missing stretch. I just live but can't recover.

Maybe I ask to risk am astersk losing it. One

of those undercaffeinated afternoons where your body goes on not

a pilot and the rest of your brain floats just

above you, watching. But my back's still damp from the

effort of trying to open that damn door. There's a

raw line across my palm where I pressed against the metal.

I can't stop shaking the way Letty catches my eye

from three registers. Await chewing on her thumb nails so

hard I think she'll drow blood. I wonder for half

a second if she snowed as something to Probably not.

She's back to scanning yogurt with her left hand, right

hand thumbing coupons. Everyone stuck in motion. I pace a

length of ale one to the back, then from Asle

nine to returns. The shape of the world seems more

fragile than it should be. People are laughing at the

sample table twins again, Manges bite and stick across their hands.

I find myself siren at them. Alezzle too long, helpless,

like I'm trying to memorize exactly whether shadows meet the

fore tile. At four thirteen, when all the clocks have

ticked safely past the iro, I sneak into the break

room using the dead minutes before mop duty. My steps

are quite Maybe I want to catch the market off

guard as if I can. The door to the break

room is never fully shut. Locker wall torn, magazine pages,

flyers for last year's produce, fun run and German sweater

bold in his cubby, pulled at the elbows. I dig

through my own locker. The shirt are chained out of

purple and warm. The tag still press flat and touched

all day. My hands tremble tracing the fibers. There are

apples on my locker sholf once I set aside for

snack time, exactly where I left them, no sign of tampering.

But suddenly I wonder how many times I've eaten the

same snack again For the first time. The white board

by the fridge says, reminder staff meeting for thirty shop,

don't be late. The pen in its holder is missing

its cap. I have the sharper deer. Maybe I can

leave a mark just out of sight before the ire.

In the next days, afternoon lull between huddles and locker searches,

I pot the dryer raised pan's cap and due to

the tiny start at the coroner shaky and black just

with the surface coves. I stared at her for long

thirty seconds. It's almost nothing invisible and life as you know.

On Thursday, as the eyo drifts to two fifty nine,

I try to keep busy, restacking shelf stable soups near

the break room. I check the dot before the clock's

flipped to three. Still there, My heart beats like those

a speaker in my chest. After everything reseets, after the

glazed routines, I stumble back in at four to four, fingers,

aching from carrying boxes somewhere I don't remember. The break

room is as it always is. The dot is gone,

surface gleaming brand new. But the pen is out of

its holder, lying sideways on the floor, calvelous as if

it slipped off a table in the dark. Asterisk could

still just me Asterisk. I think more furious than scared

now I want someone, anyone to notice instead German barrels

and with a tray of sad looking doughnuts, free for

whoever can answer. What day it is you in? He's kidding,

but the punch land's weird. It's Thursday, I say, voice

too sharp, damn ye, Asterisk, are Asterisk paying attention? He

shoots me a side eye and moves on, humming off ki.

I eat part of a chocolate doughnut bit by bet,

watching comes tumble to the tile. If I leave a

special pattern, maybe if I make a lit litle star

as symbol, will it vanished. Two. I press three chop

of crumbs, then too, then one in a faint ark

by the trash bin. Nothing could remember this, no one

would see it. It's like planting a flag on another planet.

The next cycle crumbs, even the scattered smeared, not quite

washed away. My little arc is gone, but for a lingering,

sticky streak and a finger print in the glaze that

doesn't match my own. After work, I google time Slip's

retail on my phone in the back stay well, using

the store WiFi because my date is throttled. I scroll

and scroll lurban legends, crack pup, Reddit posts, nostalgia threads

about old supermarkets, and Mandela effect lists. Nothing sounds like

my problem. Nobody is trapped for one iron a fluorescent

lit loop while the world drifts back to normal. But

I have to try something public, something no reasonable reseculd

race that Next Thursday, mid morning, while a MS McQuaid

lectures the bakery's staff about peak customer energy, I slip

at world's brightest markable orange thick tip usually reserved for

emergency price cut signs at two fifty two. I scroll

on the side door window hullo from between my hand shakes,

but the orange burns in the glass messypidramatic. Some customer

barks at me, old guy, unfamiliar, must live on the

edge of our delivery radius. You're making a mess, kid.

You know that I want to hug him. Just testing

the marker, I say. He goes back to examining his

receipt for an impossible amount of time. At three to two,

I stand guard as the window being sunlight across the

produce bin. Everything is tinted a surreal glow like magazine

out colors. The words start to blur, mirrors within mirrors.

I blink just a microsecond, and when I look again,

there's not a single smear orange gone. My hands are markalus,

the cap snapped on tight in my pocket. Four or five.

Finishing the mop up, I try the side door, the

windows clean as if replaced. I check my pocket. The

orange marker is missing. Next to my phone. Instead is

a blue marker. When I'm almost certain I didn't take

from the back office. When I showed the blue tip

to Lewis, he just says he's switching up the specials

now make it green next time, as if nothing strange

has happened. I run through possible loopholes. Maybe if I

grab a customer just for a second, shake them loose,

break the trance. I pye my approach with military precision.

Pick someone harmless, irregular who won't freak ott O tellemas

quaidum starting a cult in the keenness on Thursday. The

Tran twins a cross legged beside the mangoes again, stacking

them up and toppling them, giggling like catching characters. Their dad, exhausted,

lets them be. I time the moment at three one,

as the loop is supposed to begin, I approach, kneel

down and say, in my most urtive voice, do you

know what time it is? Can you show me your watch?

I make it again, extending my wrist, breath sharp. Nina

Trand says, my daddy says not to talk to strangers.

She smiles friendly, then zum sorting mangoes her brother chance one, two, three?

How many Thursdays in a week? And they both break off,

giggling as three thirty ticks over. I try it again, louder,

tapping the floor in rhythm, trying to snap them out

of it. Do you ever notice it's always Thursday? Here?

Both twins stare at me for a long moment, and

I swear their eyes get worldly, glossy, as if they

are looking through me instead of at me. Then Nina

shrieks and runs to crowd a manga that's rolled under

the shelf. Her brother resumes the count. Their father looks up, startled,

but before I can explain, his eyes go distant and

glassy to I stand there, hand shaking, and the store

brightens cruelly around us, over head lights flickering into whitewash.

I almost punched mango, displayed anything solid to remind myself

that something here is real. It's past four when I

catch Germaine in the break room. His phone dings sports

high lights, maybe or a meme. I half whisper, half

insis if I do something during the next dire alike

I don't know, hide your phone and plug the coffee

anything would you notice? Would you remember? He grins, Hey man,

whatever gets me out of paperwork. No way you could

hide my phone. I got superpowers, right, He wiggles his fingers.

I wonder if he thinks I'm playing some elaborate prank

or losing it. I swallow say nothing before three es

heer are the next Thursday. I hide German's phone behind

the staff frage, deep under the cleaning products, a place

he definitely asked us, never asters searches. I hold the

cold plastic type, counting the seconds, feeling half wicked, half oberated.

My phone's alarm is set for four one, just in case.

At four, German walks in, phone in hand, scrolling, not

a care in the world. I check the hiding spot, empty,

no stray, phone, no evidence. I find two granola bar

wrappers where the phone had been. When I asked German

if he lost his phone to day, he just laughs,

Ye treeing gaslight me about my own charger, ye wish.

I'm running out of ideas and worse, almost out of hope.

The leaves keep demiring every effort, leaving blank spaces where

my intent vanished. I begin to avoid mirrors. I don't

know why. Maybe I'm afraid I'll see a whole different face,

or worse, not see anything at all. Still, I try

planting another seed. I take one applant with the old

paint pen, draw a tiny blue star by the stema

seekers signature. I polish the apple with my sleeve, then

wedget high in the pyramid before free zero, careful, No

one sees my hands sweat, customers drift past as gleazed.

At three fifteen, messes pateelp proaches rhdderus wheata. But I

like just to whisper of sire. You see this time

I have a close arms crossed. She picks up apples

one by one, her hand lingers on the blue stogged fruit,

fingers brushing the paint. She stood as it invisible to her,

then drops it into her bag with the others humming.

My heart climbs in my throat. I bust her, closing tasks,

hot thumping, with the hope that maybe something will stick.

This time. At four twelve, around the apple aisle, the

display is neat. No blue star apple anywhere. I check

the produce over and over, every apple blank, nothing marked.

No blue stain on my fingers. In the waistpin under

the prep sink, A faint blue streak stains an actin

barely visible, like an accident that never quite happened. I

try to pin scraps of my mind to desire of

to trace his outline. The cloths blur. Time is a

spiral or a crushed can. Memory is thin, watery, no

more durable than the produce stickers that always peel half

way offward. Ear them at home. I talk to my

mother over dinner out of stractly pots of my brain,

chewing slower than usual. She waves her wrinkled hand, laughs

about Aunt Victoria's bun in surgery, spoons more carrots on

to my plate. You seem tired, mijo, Ye need more sleep.

Her voice is so familiar, I nearly weep. I glance

at my own hands. What if I am not the

real version of myself any more? What is in me?

If my body crosses a threshold every Thursday then doubles back.

I want to ask her, have you ever noticed things

repeat like a tape skipping? But the words would bounce

off her and spin into nothing. I smile instead and nod.

I excuse myself, Spending the rest of the night sitting

in bed fhone, a light, scrolling through blank faced social posts,

news that fields rehearsed, distant. My bedroom window buzz is

with summer insects, and I can't stop seeing the after

image of that star on the apple, a tiny bit

of blue that should have meant something for the next experiment.

I set my kitchen timer to be but three thirty,

I place it in my pocket, alarm primed as if

digital certain he could slice the loop. At two fifty,

I checked the timer, loud and clear, beeping. When I

masked the button as three zero limbs my hand sweat.

During the hour, a timer goes off loud enough that

everyone should turn nothing, no flinch from any one. They

all keep leaping, shopping, arguing, scanning. After four zero, I

checked my pocket. The timer is reset to zero zero,

battery replaced with a fresh one. I always use rechargeables.

This one is a shiny I open battery, no residue,

no sign of a beep ever sounding My mind recoils.

Did the alarm even go off? Or did I dream?

I have to know more. I try to keep up

with the store c C t V system, mostly checked

by loss prevention mess mc cuaiy pulls up clips sometimes

after closing, to highlight best practice, which means catching who

leaves a pallet in the walkway of stacks the carrots backward.

I ask as innocently as I can to review thos

day footage, explaining there's been a minor display accident in

that dam lemon crate pops open again if you jar

it too hard. She gives me a side glance. It

don't make a habit of this, all right, but but

gives me the loggin. I watch grainy overle lit footage

on the store and laptop. Two fifty seven produce calm

lowis cracking wise in the corner two fifty nine missus

Ptel appears, test ground, bush shuffles and frame. Then at

three zero, the image glitches. The store a lightful air

white and for a few seconds turns to empty frame,

as if someone's yanked off the lens cap. Four seconds

later everything resumed, suddenly back to normal. Everything snapped in place,

no evidence of missing time, but a subtle jump in

everyone's movements. I rewine Reatrite's green capture. The video is

the same every week. Skips to Blanke and returns with

the IROs of chopped up with the dull razor. I

call Lewis over test him. Anything worried about this part

we watch looks like the feed slaggy. Add it to

the maintenance list, no further comment. He dissolves back into

the rhythm twice, almost desperately to go outside to the

loading dock. Before three Zerer I plant a crumpled rubber

hyperoats granola took, which let us right in the step

my plan see if it vanishes. When I check after four,

the wrapper is still there, but it's faded. The printed

expiration dayisminged into a readability, crumbly around the edges. When

I touch it, it crumbles to dust on my arm.

Then blue veins stand out under the skin, more obvious

and grocery store lights. I rub at their matches once briefly,

while eating brick gruntose. I catch myself looking at my hands,

turning them as if they might disclose a secret. Nothing new,

no scars, no extra molds, but my fingers still smell

like apples. In Aumonia. Night is worst dreams come vivid hush.

I walk. The aisles are closing. All the music pitch

shifted and stuttering, as if the speakers are damaged. I'll

after ale stretches to infinity, COEs back on itself. Customers

float behind frosty glass, looking in mute and gesturing. I shout,

but no one hears. Sometimes a face turns my way

too perfect, plastic featured. Sometimes it glitches and falls into blankness.

One morning, after a nightmare, I wake up clutching a

sticky note to my chest and note, I have no

memory of writing. You are still here. Thursday is real.

The handwriting is mine, but wabbling desperate, press so hard

the paper is nearly torn. Don't comes washed out and severe.

My mother fry's eggs in the kitchen, humming out of tune.

I check the hallway mirror. My reflection is flat, two dimensional.

I wink at myself and the reflection lags half a second,

then snaps back to normal. Maybe a trick of nerves.

I sense the market tightening its grip, turning the I

am more and more into a wedge inside my life,

making my scent of selfleak at its edges nerves raw.

I visit the fast Down alone before open. One morning,

A bucket of half dead gilps, rescued after the weekend rush,

last spilled under a hand risen sign yellow one dollar, pink,

two dollars. I gather the petals careful, arrange the stems

in unmistakable patterns, a big, clumsy ex The stems cross

visibly in the bucket. When I circle back after the

next cycle, the sign is crisp, untouched and the stems

are neatly ordered. All in a row, not a crawl

of petal out of place. But there's a faint green

smear on the bin's rim, as if some one wiped

away evidence in haste. A clack's sharp is a pin

in my brain. The eyur isn't forgetting things, it's asterisk

restoring asteris them. I get bolder. I append the display

of braided gallic before three. If returns perfectly coiled after,

I try stuck in the canned beans and a spiral,

but later they are back in a neat soldier rose.

But this time of two upside down and end. One

subtle mistake, a glitch in perfection, like something someone putting

the world back almost as it was, but not entirely.

I catch myself watching for slip ups, like a detective

in my own life. I drag my feet as long

as possible before entering an aisle, trailing fingers over jaws,

looking for tiny ears, label slightly torn, bread stacked, and

even banana's rotated an eight terran off from how I

left them. I start writing oddities in a little notebook

I keep in my sock, too parnoi to dressed pocket.

Now the page is fill but by morning some lines

are smudged, as if sweating through the paper. Ink go

one blowry Apple's blue spot vanished. The Lewis forgets, Letty

repeats joke. Whole phrase is run together, words on top

of words. By the twentieth week, Miss cessp Tell's cardigan

is still the same, cream with pink roses, her smile

immaculate for script, never deviating. I find a hole in

the sleeve, barely repair it, but then at my next

glance is gone again pristine, or may be covered by

her hand. One evening, as I close down with Lewis,

he jokes man, you need a better hobby or a vacation.

His sneak is quick on the tile than the ridgess haze.

His features blur in re store. If I stare too

long at his face, it becomes hard to remember what

makes his hair pattern dimple, the little notch above his

left eyebra. My sense of self feels thence grocery store

onion skin. My locker number twenty seven blinks in and

out for a half second, then holds it takes me

foretries to recall my own address to a mess mc

quaid when she asks about my emergency contact, I give

my house number, then have to correct myself. Cheeks hot

as she raises an ibra. My mother hugs me extra

tight that night. You're working too hard. When's your asterisk?

Next asterisk? Day off? I stare at the calendar. My

next one is, of course, Thursday. I whisper in the

dim of my room, not a prayer, but a warning.

Don't let me forget who I am. At the window.

Fat natspas at the glass, already crowding for their turn

at on Thursday arrives as always with cracks. Sunlight in

the bus of islaly d tubes that have begun lately

to pulse. A fraction offer them. At two fifty eight,

Lewis is at the cullers. Letty is painting a sign

for doughnuts, and the chess grandpost, muttering words in a

language I can't quite follow. I brush my cup past

missus Hanson, her hand raised mid gesture, then moving again,

as if nothing happened. At two fifty nine, the hunker's

displays aligned and touched. I grip an apple from against

the waxy skin. Clock switched three zero. I braced myself.

Harpits so loud I almost can't hear this orphorize. If

I can see clearly now in the overhead speakers, same

as always, everything stutters part one end. It was the

color that folded first. I mean not the apple's those

staved red and gold too bright under overhead bulbs, but

the air itself, like the world wanted to shopen around

the wrong places. My hand wobbled on the edge of

the crate, knuckles white as I pinched the honekerss, not

even sure which stack it came from. Somewhere in the

lull I can see clearly now bled into a new song,

all tinney and offbeat, every note, landing a quarter step

light right away. Nothing happened. I stood there, braised from

a Sesspatel or the trins to glitch for some immediate

reset or reversal. Instead, the market breathed and buckled around me,

as it always had, a too bright ordinary lewis hollowed

from the bachistock chuck utable the sire creams. Dude, we drowning,

And I mumbled something just to prove my mouth still worked.

On the wall monitor, a woman in Floro scrubs trailed

three bags with the same uncertain step. She vanished around

coffee and tea reappeared by the end cap, her face,

setting off alarm bells for no reason except the way

she paused to check the list, press her hand to

her cheek and repeated the suckle again twice in three minutes,

identical down to the tilt of her chin. Letty wrapped

her register, keys, dropped a stack of coupons, then paused

looking at the clock for a fraction of a second.

Her mouth open shot, and then the music surged. Germans

stuck his head out from behind the baker's swinging door.

Fire streaked up his forearm. He good man, he called,

but not like he saw anything. One more like he

sensed a draft, and I was the open window. The

handed crisp slipped out of my hand and rolled under

the stand, thunking once. My body jerked after it. I

needed a job from my hands right then, fingers closing

on wax, he read. The floor was cold, and for

a heart beat, I'd have swarm. My breath frosted the towel.

The burn in my palm felt new. It grounded me,

and for ten seconds I was sure it would fate

the patent. The pulse, the iro of that erased itself,

but a strange hush hoon in the air. Not silence exactly,

but a thin out echo after the music cut, like

the world's volume had been twisted down for just me.

And when missus Bettel reappeared for the third circuit, he

liss pristine. The words came tumbling out of my mouth

before I could think. YE said that already you astrisk.

Just Asterisk said that, don't you remember how smiled? Didn't falter.

She just cocked her head so gentle, so polite, and

blinked at me. Of course, mijo, do you always remember

what I like? She plucked an apple skatered to merely

past me, and for one second I saw her eyes

go blank as a powered down registered display. My skinitched,

The overhead lights flared and faded like the current, and

the building was stuttering. Everything snapped into place as if

someone fled the switch, and the day wore on. But

now the eye felt brittle and more exposed. It was

as if I'd kicked out of support or yanked too

hard on a cord. I hadn't nome as plugged in.

But the world didn't tumble, It just spun a little faster.

I clenched the apple so hard and nearly burst. The

first thing I notice as I stumbled out of the

prody section is how my movements lagged behind my intentions.

My foot lifts were drags. My voice doesn't sound like

mine when I'm ata Hello to Lewis, who preoccupied with

his phone only half gruns back by the bakery, The

plastic rated bread glint under the two white lights. Joe

Mayne approaches with his cliphord frowning, but the expression softens

into confusion as he tries, really tries, I can tell

to meet my eyes. Did you switch out the rye

for hole weed up front? His tone is accused tory,

but the words sound force too formal. I glance at

the display, six loaves perfectly aligned, no une disturbed. I

know with a certainty that comes from living the same

moment twice that those loaves have moved before enough to

the ire, but the line between before and after has

thinned to Goalsamer Lewis saddles up attention flickering. Bro. He

left the back door open again, he says, but it's automatic,

almost bored, he says, it every Thursday on some schedule

that used to be comfitting but now feels like a

threat some coal's getting in. It's always cold. I snap

too sharp. A shiver runs through me, not from rbuff,

from the sense that the responses around me on quite

in sync with what I'm saying. Lewis narrows his eyes,

but a moment later he lasts and slapped me on

the back. Easy on the attitude, man, He've been running

double shifts. The bell rings by the bakery. Jermaine lifts

natural cabell and hollows fresh bread. But it's the weakest

delivery I've ever heard from him, Like his lungs. Don't

know if the is meant for shouting. I take a step,

intending to cross the store. My path collides with Miss

s Hanson, who seems to materialize out of no right

where I want to walk. She's got a bunch of

tulips in her hand, yellow ones held just so. I

want to brush past her, but she blocks my way

looking up. Would you say these are too eager for spring?

She asks, precise perfectly enunciated, just as she does every week.

For a split second, her eyes falter meeting mine, as

if she'll say something new. I blurt, you already asked

that twice. Doesn't this feel we'd to you. She blinks,

shakes her head minutely, and then voice sunny bahallow moves on.

I think pink is softer, don't you. It's a common

to know by how to come for frase a trap.

I stagger away, nearly dropping the display basket of oranges.

I meant to a stock. My hand's itch for the

first time. Kowork a stock glancing my way may be

too specifically. Their heads cocked odd matching angles. The world

hasn't shattered, but it seems are on display at three seven.

The lights flicker every time I blink, I seem to

see double let his hands slide in coupons, then sliding

coupons again, twice three times. My mouth is dry. Germans

joke as he walks past me only Thursday, man you

good lance flath, no smirk, no teeth. When I press

him and say, do you ever get the feeling of

the words, just evaporate, never even reaching his face. It

dawns on me the stakes on just about memory or

loneliness any more. The ire is eating more than my time.

The iro is hollowing out the people around me. I'd

been afraid it would erase ASTs me asters, but Now

it feels as if its wearing holes through every one

in reach. Flickers of self disappearing raise completely. If I

pushed too hard, music spins off another tiny melody as

I clutch the apple so tight the skin splits. The

smells too sweet, almost chemical. The market's routine now seems

to lean on me, prodding, testing, pulling me deeper. The

well was snapping shot, and I was the only one

prying my fingers in the seams. But I still at breath.

I still had time, if not to fix, maybe just

to call out or make some mark that couldn't be

swept away. Suddenly, the consequence is crowded in. The glitches

aren't subtle any more. It's like every little break I've caused,

as catching up, each attempt at assistance of skipstone force

in the water to splash backward over itself. Things speed

up and slow down. In the aisles where I walk,

my sense of time stutters, cramps what I have for

the bakery counter to steady myself. Lewis intersets eyes too wide.

Hey man, you bleeding? He points at my hand, where

the cracked honey crisp has left a thin pink line.

Sit down, Willie his voice presses at my ears two

sharp hes. Never said that before, never in that tone.

I drop onto a case of paper towels. My head swims.

It's as if the ile de storts. Customers that pass

by sea, multiplied overlapping headspad in identical gestures, all lifting

soup cans at the same time, as if cued by

an invisible conductor. Each time Assesspateel circles the apples, it's

like a replay, but her cardigan is button differently top bottom,

top again. My heart lurches with each change. It's not

consistency anymore, its contradiction. Onions tumble from a topled display.

I jump startled, but no one else blinks. Lois is

already at the spell, collecting onions in a bin, but

as where I see two of him for a breath,

one stacking one, reaching their motions half a second out

of phase until they merge. Letty's face in the register's

reflection splits and doubles, blurred at the edges, like a

misprinted receipt. Her mouth moves in time with the music,

then in time with a voice. I can't place hers,

but deeper or not hers at all? Can I ask? Keep.

I begin, but when I try to finish, my tongue

is too thick, and the question dies. Seconds later, Letty

hands me a cupon eyes glazed spinach is two for one,

no limit. The words are empty, swallowed by the lights overhead.

In sample table corner, the Tran twins chant softly voices,

dipping in a jagged rhythm. Their father, fidgets mouth working

like gum. When I approach, the twins grab two mangoes

at once, then drop them again. Same action, same squeal,

same paws with their shirts of sweat, colors between loops,

one blue, then green them again. I choke out, Did

ye just sw with shirts? The adad turns and his

mouth glitches half way open, teeth too bright, a flash

of static in his eyes. We're waiting our turn, he monotones,

and I step back, skin crawling. Jermaine comes by, rolling

the mop bucket. He halts, looks through me as if

searching for his own ghost. For an instant, I see

three overlapping Germans, all wets, each translucent, each mouthing a

different joke, one about spores, one about bread, and one

I can quite make out because his lips blur and recombine.

Then he coughs and says, in a false seeming voice,

any messes wydeux none, you need to handle I croak.

Time falls again. It's three twenty one O three eighteen.

If I trust my phone, which now twitches between readouts.

The ceiling fans were louder too fast, then nearly stop.

Above the doors. The camera light flashes, stuttering, then dins

to black. The temperature drops. My breath steams. For the

first time, I feel like it's green, and the light

would freeze around me. There is the sense that if

I push too far, if I break one more rule,

the whole markt the whole asters devis asteris will shatter.

Oh I will I fumble up and stagger to the

back room. My hands wipe overcrates, my arm's numb, mind whirling.

I try to slow my breathing, but every inhales cratches

in my chest. The break room door will close all

the way. Its edges flicker, as if caught between here

and elsewhere by the lockers. Something new. Two apples on

my shelf, one with a tiny blue mark, not a

painted star this time, but a blurry dot, as if

faltered and hastily wiped away. I feel more than see

a faint pressure, tangle of possibilities packed into a single fruit.

I reach for it, but my fingers go no tinging.

The apple feels lighter, less attached to gravity than it

should be. Footsteps echo at the whole, more than one set,

out of rhythm, out of time. I freeze, not turning

until I glimpse movement in the reflection of the coffee pot.

Silhouette at the edge of the room, colorless, their faces featureless.

They flicker at the edge of my vision, neither solid

nor shadow. The movements gleapt on mechanical attendance maybe, or

cleaners of a kind I don't want to know each

moves in loots, picking up objects, replace them, correcting trays,

brushing out crumbs. Only I can see one stops, turns

slightly my way, no face, just a suggestion of presents.

I flinch, my skin crawls. The thing bends, almost bowing,

and with the flick of a transparent arm, wipes away

the faint smudged near mapple on the shelf. It smoves

the surface, then reverts into the indistinct crowd of market

patterns visible then not. My knees buckle. The apple in

my hand feels heavier, now suddenly present, almost hot. I

hold my breath for a moment. My reflection in the

coffee pot's blits then knits together again. I'm here, I'm

still here. If I move, I could disrupt everything. A

clock takes four one that low precious nap. As the

IRO closes, the light return to their natural warmth. The

air relaxes. Letty's voice rings out, cheerful, clean up on

sis it, as if nothing's wrong. Lewis calls he clocking

out early, but with a lop sided grin his usual

real self back or close enough. But I know better now,

I know that each attempt I make to mock the

Iro to change the story leaves less and less room

for mistakes. Under the market is ready to push back harder.

As each Thursday arrives, the pressure only grows. I try

to avoid Thursday altogether. One week, I call in sick,

making my mother promise to hold my phone so I

can't answer it for Miss mc quay calls. I wake

up late, eat breakfast, slowly, trying to savor the irows

as if there unlimited supply. But it doesn't matter. I

knewon the market is in my head's scent of wax apples, rising,

music noteswoven into the air, bread smell lingering in the kitchen,

even when nothing's baking. At two o'clock, my hands start twitching,

as if arranging imaginary fruit. Three o'clock. Sitting in my room,

the light flickers, walls closing, and until my vision narrows

to a tunnel. My clock in the hallway stutter's skipping ticks.

My phone display mounts to stack between three zero and

four zero, and when I check my mirrors for a

blinding instant, I see the market behind me, reflected ceiling fans,

polished floors, shadowed aisles. I spin nearly screaming, certain I'll

find myself there, But it's only my room, unremarkable, if

a little to me than it was. I try again

the next week, determined to fight. I arrive before my shift, prepared,

notes gold on my forearms, written so hard the pen

leaves grooves. I carry my phone set with five alarms,

one every ten minutes. I dress him, smash lays, blue shirt, stripe, socks,

grand mosert scuff pieces impossible to ignore. At two fifty,

I check my get up in the freezer glass, all color,

no uniform. At three zero, as though iri falls, I

grip the produce bin and try with every ounce of

will to asteris remember myself Asterisk to astoris mark asteris

the market. The alarms buzz one by one at three ten, three, twenty, three, thirty, three,

forty three, fifty. Each time customers look briefly towards the beeping,

their face is caught between right and boredom. But before

anyone can act their expressions glaze, they return to their scripts,

voices eerily in sync. At three thirty one, my scarf

is around my neck. At three forty one it is not.

The blue shirt is suddenly missing. My socks are both white,

regular standard issue. I look in the glass and see

nothing but my Orchard Market uniform white Polo dog pants.

My arm, once gribbled with notes, is bare. After four,

in the break room, Lewis finds me crumpled on the bench.

One alarm still faintly buzzing in my pocket. Dude, what

the hell's wrong with you? His voice is soft, almost kind,

but confused and may be scared. I've been stuck, then

mumble voics thin for months, three years. You don't see,

do you. He looks at me a long time, face

mostly shadow than schrokes. You want water or something, He

fetches it. I drink It tastes real, at least for

now that evening. My fee won't stop moving, even in

my own room. My hands arrange invisible fruit on my comforter,

over and over, just sir, My foem won't keep a

charge between three zero and four zero, no matter how

long I plug it in. Time is hiccupping. The market's routine,

threads itself through my thoughts, tugs at my limits. It's

escalating in small, punishing ways. One Thursday, while setting up

for bread samples, mss McQuaid briefly turns to me mid

sentence about Team Gulls, her eyes going wide and lost.

Did dear no, I never mind? She claps her hands,

and the moment is gone. Elsewhere, a customer snaps at

me from missing a price, then not a minute later

thanks me by name and laughs as though nothing happened.

In the bathroom, I spot three small sticky notes, all

in my handwriting, but using words I never use. Stick

to the script. I don't let them see Thursday's process.

I don't remember placing them. When I peel one off,

a shadow detaches behind it, a docker shape that lingers

even after the note is gone, vanishing when I blink drastic.

Now I must test what waits on the other side

of resistance. The pennant took the wheat before a new

blue gel one dancin kaihide in warehouse, wedging it at

a crate of bulc onions. As three easier strikes, I

sprint against full logic all habit passy apples past the twins,

boasting into the staff only area. My badge, swing's heart

hammering the storage like flickers fifty herd stutter first split second.

The craters are transparent through them, a glimpse silhouette store

attendants maybe astrous, clean as asterisk moving in odd clockwra

gloops one bend, picks up the pen and drops it

not in my hand but into a paper tulbin that

hadn't been there before and will be after. The attendants

hand flickers at the edges, as if in blue from

the world. I yell, what are you do? I matter

to you? The figure stops straiten's cocks, its head, its

former is lewed. Faces shift and blend, sometimes letty sometimes

lewis never quite settling. It says nothing. Instead, it moves

the crate with the kind of precision you only see

and sped up security footage asterisk restore real line correct asterisk.

The pen vanishes, the crate resets. I run forward, reaching

for it, but my hand passes through the attendant. For

an instant is a jolt like that static poppy get

touching door handles in winter. My hand tingles goes cold.

The crate slips through my fingers. When I glance away,

the attendant is already gone. The warehouse is normal at

fort one. My badge is missing. I find it later

in the staffed bath room, lying on the counter by

the hand soap. No one claims to have seen it.

That evening, I scribbed my arms so hard the skin peels,

Convinced something is written there I can't see. A nagging

itch grows in my chest for proof, for consequences that

others can no longer ignore. My next arctic destroy it,

not just rearrange. The spiral of action is tightening, and desperate,

I wait for the Thursday I are to begin. I

pick the sample birds still hot from the oven, and

crush it in my hands. I sprinkle the crumbs into

the fan, spreading them in a wild dark across the

white tile. It is destruction, not mere disorder. First split breath,

nothing happens. Then as I back away, the crumbs leap

into perfect formation, swirl into the air, and reassemble in

the counter. I freeze. I run my finger through the

air where the bread had been scattered. Nothing clean. Then

out of nowhere, single crumb remains. It hovers on the

edge of the plastic tray, pulsing blue in the light.

I reach for it, my fingers close, and it pulses,

then disappears. The tray looks untouched, accustom in. A man

with hairy forms and about a green calf glances at

me confusion, morraing his features for half a second. Then

his expression blanks. Is there more rye? He asks? I

answer numbly, The market closing in around us, the overhead

lights snapped brilliant white. Soon I am left doubting my

senses entirely. Lewis walks past two of him for a

flash of mirro glitch maybe, or proof that the loots

are branching. I try to grab a sleeve. Did you

just pass me twice? I demand. He stares lipped, press

then dissolves into laughter. Relax, man, you sing dabble, Maybe

you need to check the expiration date on your coffee.

His outline shivers, doubling then merging. It is as though

parts of the market were pots of asterisk as asteriska

running on split tracks, twisting and reshaving to fit the script.

If I resist, the pressure grows, threatening to overwrite not

just the day, not just the ire, but individual memory itself.

That evening, my memory shift. I walk home by instinct feet,

finding the way, But when I arrive, my keys are wrung,

an extra one on the ring, brass and unfamiliar. I

fish it off, turn it over. It has no teeth,

flat and useless. Inside, my mother is humming a new

song when I know she's never known. It's from yesterday,

that showy watch, she claims, but then she can't recall

the title. I run to the bathroom and stare at

the mirror until my features plare here, are still here?

I chant the words, sounding alien. I check my sock

for my secret notebook. Inside three pages, I am missing

the remaining pages. Repeat the same phrase a dozen times,

not real, until noticed, I feel a screencill at my throat,

but suppress it. I pick at the pealing wallpaper, gouging, deep,

craving sensation, reality, friction of any kind. This is war.

I've had enough of defense. I need to mount a final,

undeniable offense on what must be the fortieth Thursday. I

arrive armed, sharp is in every pocket, extra uniform shirt

hidden in my backpack. Note puts for every surface, portable

alarm in my shoe. I chuck a whole coffee and another,

fighting off the foes behind my eyes. Here is my plan.

I will force the market to see me. I will

not stalk, not ring out, not answer back, not for

an hour. I will refuse the script. The clock approaches

two fit fifty nine. I'm sweating, muscles tied. My heart

thunders in my ears. I stand behind the Apple display,

arms crossed, eyes open and why freezier of the light flicker,

then pulse, then stabilize too. White. Missesptel arrives, wearing the

cart again, holding her list. The words begin, mijo, do

you have that little step sword? But I cut her off. No, ebark,

I do not. You already said that. You are going

to say it again. You say it every week this

is not real. She stops her smile, waver is broken.

The list falls from her hand, hitting the floor and

splitting the air with impossible silence. For an instant, her

form loses outlines, dipping at the edges, as if her

presence is a projection sputtering around me. The market skips

as split a shudder. The music grinds down, skipping then

running backward. Lights flicker, customers freeze, mid gesture, a man

with avocados, a chess grandpa midpond, the tran twins, both

holding a mango in perfect symmetry. I take a step,

not sure if the floor will hold. I refuse absolutely

to do my job. I let the apple drop the

crate stage are. I stand in the center of the aisle,

arms crossed, mouth clam shut, all activity grindstone a natural halt,

and almost instantly reality drains away. The market on spools,

sholl stretch into infinity as multiply mirrors within mirrors. My

reflection flickers everywhere, caught in fridge glass in a gleam

of apples, and Letty's blanks stare across four registers and

again behind me. Farther down the bakery aisle, voices echoed,

distinct at first, then all at once, Mijo, do you

have that step still? Would you say? These are too

eager for spring? Where are my pears? Over and over?

Like chance? At midnight? The light strube, a rabbit, painful flash.

I squeeze my eyes when I blink. The store is empty,

just me, the humming of the old van, the faint

reek of bleach and fruit, and the pang of my

heart beating faster than should be possible. Only in the

emptiness they come. The attendant emerge, shadow forms, never in focus,

always at the edge of center, no faces, just the

urge of presents near a hostile nor kind. They retrace

the depths of a day and know better than I

know myself, picking up bread, folding napkins, straightening apples, cleaning

the faintest fingerprints from the fridge doors, one of them

taller outline, a little sharp, orleans close. I sense not

here you are the wrong note, You are the echo

out of time. It tilts its head, gestures of the

apple I dropped. If I want to astorus, break asterisk

the ire, I must do nothing. I let them work,

I let the breath freeze in my chest. I become

a statue. Even my thoughts intentionally blank. If I cannot leave,

I can at least refuse to participate. The market stutters,

then splendors. Light flickers out. In that vanished instant, I

feel no asterisk. See asterisk. A hundred copies of myself

in a hundred looping markets, each failing was coming or

standing in the same spot, all wavering on the cusp

of self erasure. In the direct aftermath, the lights flare

back to life. Market noises returned, the musaic overlapping voices,

check out, beeps, footsteps, laughter, broad scent swells up. The

world resumes its usual energy, But there holds now small

tears in the weave. Yet he stays off into space.

As a customer waves for assistance, a hand hovering unsure

over a packet of Cubon's the chest. Grandpa fumbles his pawms,

eyes fogged for a second before he shakes himself and

resumes play. The trant us sit quietly, neither chanting nor giggling,

just watching the flow of shoppers, as if searching for

something lost. My body aches heavy with the weight of

stilled action. When I look around, customers linger longest where

I disobeyed the rhythm. The apple sits at my feet,

splood open and touched. No one picks it up, and

for the first time ever, the display is uneven, one

gap left unfold. Lewis sidles up, looks confused. He got

somewhere to be man, he asks, but the words drip

with uncertainty, as if he has only just been pressed

back into the mold of himself. I answer, quiet, flat, no,

nowhere at all. For a heartbeat. The air is dense,

crackling with aftermath. My heart still pounds, barely believing the

world has resumed. But I know now deep her revocable knowledge,

that I am the flaw at the static in the signal.

The market cannot quite repair itself around me. Day resumes,

but the eye will not quite be the same again.

It is four one. I force myself up, muscle memory

guiding me through my usual task sweeping, stacking, tidying, greeting.

For the rest of the night, customers act normal, or

normal enough, but it's as if everyone's moving at half speed.

A kitchen timer beat, somewhere in the bakery, bell clangs,

a quarter note late, A waft of bred foots in,

and the four lady lingers just a moment too long,

over the yellow tulips, brushing her hand on the petals,

like she remembers doing this before, but isn't sure why. Later,

at home, the dinner tables bright, my mother slicing chicken,

recounting a story I haven't heard and can't quite follow.

The TV chatter is away with news, and I can't

shake the sensation at the script wobbles glitches every time

a phrase repeats. My hands trace absent apples on my jeans.

There's a moment where I blink and catch the market

reflected in the kitchen window, shoppers carts, the glint of

polish fruit beneath less light in my bedroom. The sticky

note in my sock has a phrase I did not

write or remember. The split apple. The handwriting flickers between

mine and some one else's. Sleep never arrives easily any more.

In the thickest part of the night, I walk the

market its aisles in my dreams, every surface echoing the

morning's events, shelves realigning in time with my breathing. Sometimes,

if I listen sharply enough, I hear the starter of

a voice of markets on my own. A whispering that

those days tightening its grip when on cracks. I know

those day will always come again. The next Thursday, as usual,

arrive early, ride in the bus, pump slick against the glass.

The mural above the door is sun too bright, paint

a shade off from my memory. In a staff huddle,

there seems a little quieter. Germans laugh atone too flat

at two fifty nine produces bait in sunlight that shouldn't

reach this far. Inside, customers filter in shoe sools, slapping tile.

Letty watch her registrarscreen, catching my eye, but quickly looking away.

The air is dance and expectant to charge with potential.

A hush trickles down the aisles. I stand at the apples,

bodied hands, but almost come. My heart pounds in rhythm

with the faintest ticking from the bakery clock waiting. I embrace,

not for action, but simply to witness. Three o'clock comes ness.

Patel approaches list and hand, gentle, smiling. You have that

steps so from me, mijo. The crowd is in movement.

Latha rolls from the snack table, and a thousand tiny

routines begin again. I look straight into her eyes steady

as she recites. Better is sweeter, but I like just

a whisper of sirreer. You see amieka gaze as the

EYEO begins, and for a moment we both hold the

script open between us to spend it, knowing or maybe

not knowing how far from normal we've come. At the

end of the ire, I let the apple slip from

my hand, let it roll, I watch it settle beneath

the polish of a world that forgets everything except the

need to reset. And that is the end. Thank you

for listening, and I will see you in the next one.