She stood in the checkout
line for eleven minutes,
holding a basket of
things she could not
remember choosing. Bread,
batteries, a lemon she
had picked up without
wanting one. The cashier
said something about the
weather and she smiled
the way you smile in
photographs, present but
not quite arrived.
Outside, the afternoon
was loud and ordinary,
and her own footsteps
sounded borrowed. She
kept waiting for the
anxiety to arrive the way
it usually did, sharp
and insistent. Instead
there was only this soft
distance, like watching
her own life through the
store window.
She walked home carrying
the bag lightly, as if
it belonged to someone
she used to know.