Not My Place to Judge

Standing in line for the pharmacist, Katie and I chat vacantly about the shampoo and conditioner, and why the tubes of lotion are locked up with a key, but the nicotine patches aren’t.

A song comes over the store soundsystem, something about “making this place your home,” which sounds to me like one of those bands that wore suspenders and had creative facial hair and played acoustic instruments back in the early 2010’s. I think to myself, but do not say aloud, that this is one of the whitest songs I’ve heard today.

The black guy sitting in the waiting area for the pharmacy starts singing along, and I mentally shrug, because obviously it doesn’t matter what I think is white or not.