What the Glass Showed

I was reaching for something frozen,

and in the glass door, I was there—

distorted, but there.

Caught by the frost,

the condensation,

the cold pressing against the surface

from inside.

My face was serious.

Concentrated.

Looking down at broccoli

like it mattered,

like this small choice

deserved my full attention.

I looked so grave.

So certain.

So committed to a decision

that wouldn't matter

by tomorrow.

The glass showed me

what I looked like

when I wasn't looking to be seen,

when I wasn't prepared,

when the guard was down.

Just a regular person

in a fluorescent aisle.

Just someone's face,

blurred and distorted,

taking something simple

far too seriously.

I pulled the bag I'd been reaching for.

Didn't look again.

Didn't want to see

that version of me—

the one caught mid-reach,

the one who looks like

they're solving the world's problems

when really they're buying dinner.

But I carry that image.

The distorted face.

The furrowed care.

The way I look

when I think nobody's there to stare,

when I'm alone

in the freezer aisle,

taking myself so seriously

about vegetables and choice.