The Produce Section

I saw you and my answer came out broken:

between things, I said. Between.

Your face didn't move. You'd spoken

so easily about your job, your routine,

the apartment you'd rented, the quiet

life you'd built. I could see us both

in the glass of the refrigerated door—

you clear, me fractured, both

of us wavering. You asked for more

details, but I was already leaving,

my cart half full of things I wouldn't eat.

I felt you watching, believing

what you saw. That incomplete.