COCO’S POV
Tuesday nights are my graveyard shift from life.
Same fluorescent hellhole, same squeaky cart with the possessed wheel, same list scrawled on whatever scrap of paper I can find: milk, eggs, bread, chips, wine, the kind that comes in a box because who has energy for corkscrews?
I’m thirty-two, divorced, and the highlight of my week is deciding between salted or kettle-cooked. Pathetic? Yeah. But it’s mine.
GreenLeaf Grocers smells like bleach and broken dreams. The Muzak is stuck on a loop of 80s ballads that make me want to claw my ears off.
I’m in my usual attire: a faded sundress that’s more hole than fabric, thin enough that the AC kisses my n*****s into peaks.
No bra, f**k laundry. No panties, f**k everything.
The hem skims mid-thigh, and when I bend for the bot
