Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Keep It

"A half-pound of...," I pull up the list on my phone, "thinly-sliced Boar's Head bologna, please."

The woman behind the counter unwraps a long, dense, pink cylinder and feeds it into the spinning blade of a steel and white porcelain slicer. As the machine whirs to a stop, she comes back to where I'm standing with a single, almost translucent disc of the stuff and makes to hand it to me, saying, "That's your sample slice."

"I'm sorry," I say apologetically, "I don't eat meat."
One year ago: Faith of Fall
Four years ago: What They Really Think

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