Almond Milk & Arguments

The aisle was too bright, all white

fluorescent hum, plastic gleam.

She was clutching that carton, some brand

of almond milk, probably organic.

Her face, blotchy, a raw red mask

under the unforgiving light, wet

streaks of something, tears, I guess,

racing down her chin. He was shouting,

low, controlled, the kind that slices.

And it was like a gut punch, right there

between the frozen pizzas and the kale.

Our Target parking lot. That awful

Wednesday. The way my own face must have looked,

all that snot and smeared cheap lipstick.

Months ago. I thought I'd swept it

under the rug, vacuumed it up,

disposed of the proof.

But some stains just sit.

Some arguments

never truly end, they just

wait for a stranger's crying face

to pick them right back open.

She dropped the carton. It didn't break.

Just dented. White drops like spilled regret

on the linoleum.