The Peas Were Fine Actually

His card didn't work on the first swipe.

He tried it again. The light stayed red.

He looked at the cashier. She waited.

He tried cash instead.

He needed exact change.

He counted it once.

I was holding frozen peas,

the cold going out of them in blunts

of warmth — the bag softening,

going slack. The line held still.

I had nowhere to be.

I kept reminding myself until

the reminding stopped working.

He counted the coins again.

He paid. The line moved. I paid.

I drove home in the rain.

I cooked the peas. They were fine.

Completely fine. I understood

that in the parking lot.

Two minutes. Butter. Good.

I ate them at the counter, standing.

I know how this sounds.

I don't know why I keep saying they were fine.

But they were. That's the grounds.