It’s the floor, if you want to know, and the way the rubber wheels squeeze against it. The splotchy patterns, dark ones and light ones at random. And the scuff marks. Everywhere. This floor could never be clean, could never have been new. It must have come from the factory like this, scuff marks included.
It’s the carts, really. The thin metallic sound of them being filled, stacked, emptied. The way they scream with every movement, like someone playing drums at 3am. And the flip down plastic seat with the ineffective advertising. That’s where I put my yogurt.
In truth though, and I mean this, its the smells. Not just the variety, but the way the smells mix, mingle, and marry to form brand new smells: Clorox Meat. Clorox babies. Clorox Crackers.
My head is spinning.
But seriously, and absolutely most of all, its the music. It’s Olivia Newton John. It’s me in the backseat of our mini-van on a long car trip, I am 7 and my dad is singing softly along to “Sam”, and our car, for some reason, is filled with meat, babies, and bleach.
