Small Carton

I picked up the large carton.

Read the price sticker.

Put it back.

Picked it up again.

The case hummed.

The woman behind me

reached past for the butter and left.

I bought the small one.

The walk home did the math I didn't want:

three dollars.

Whether three dollars

was the kind of number that means something

or the kind you absorb.

The fluorescent had been doing something

to the light in there—

making the eggs and the orange juice

and the butter two shelves over

all equally possible.

By the time I reached my building

I'd stopped counting.

The eggs were in the bag.

Small carton.

The math still going

somewhere I wasn't looking.