While she undercharged
me, I looked at the place where her hand should have been. Her arm ended in a
smooth, circular conclusion. It didn’t seem to bother her. She slid my purchases
from the conveyor to the bagging area like she’d been doing it her whole life.
It was the Bowl. Maybe she had. She had a rhythm: slide, beep, slide, beep.
Except when she came to those loquats.
Do we forget or do
we try not to remember?
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