Panic in the Dairy Aisle
Mary felt slightly bug-eyed at the thought of visitors. She had been panic-baking since Sunday but she ran out of butter for the scones and thought she might have a meltdown if she couldn’t get them into the oven before her parents arrived. She wiped her floured hands on her jeans and made a beeline for the grocery store.
Mary was out of sorts at the store as well. The fluorescent lights hummed incessantly and there was a frigid draft. She suddenly couldn’t remember why she was there. It didn’t help that there was a man down the dairy aisle who looked suspiciously like Sting. She found herself pushing her cart past the aisle again and again. This way for the dried garbanzo beans. That way for the pretzels. And back again for the Dijon. Each time, she leered down the dairy aisle, half remembering something about baking, half resisting the urge to shout, “Don’t stand so close to me!” at the poor man perusing the pre-sliced Swiss selection.
Back home, Mary’s parents had arrived at her front door, but the house was dark. They tried her cell. Mary answered from underneath the deli counter, dizzy from her frenetic pacing. The man who looked like Sting was in front of the peppers now.
“Can’t talk!” Mary hissed to her parents. She tossed her phone across the linoleum and made a mad dash over to produce.
