The many Downsides of an Open Face

“Oh come on, it’s just chocolate. Have I really never shared before?” It was the most bitter thing he’d ever tasted at the time, but as an adult with a much clearer memory of high octane coffee, it was now the sweetest. 

There is nothing more childish, more decadent than the simple want for candy, and at the moment there seemed to be no craving more particular then for chocolate. Not just any chocolate, but for the rather absurdly specific type that was the memory of bitterness he’d had from the first chocolate his mother ever gave him. 

He’d missed it sometime later, and as an adult it seemed very possible that he might even enjoy a piece of deeply bitter chocolate. He’d had supposedly bitter dark chocolate before, but what he remembers was different, realer, less chalky and dull. 

What he remembers from when he was little, was a deep dark blackish color in beautiful contrast with the peach pink of his mother’s favorite frock, or the bright sun-dull blue of suede-denim boots.

He remembers mocking his mother like children do, and the smallest sliver piece dropped on his tongue.

As bitter as soap, as it melted like butter. 

He remembers that but not the color of the wrappers, or of the stowaway box where such candies were kept or what shaped chocolate the hair thin sliver was broken from. 

He remembers the depth of it, and how rosy it tasted just above the bitterness, and he remembers the butter-melt of it. And while he was half certain that any such chocolate would be discontinued on the simplest aspects of it’s flavor, he still held out hope that he’d find those chocolates, and that he’d one day share a treat with his memories. 

But really he should know better than to shop on an empty stomach, even to spite his own yearly whims. This was a venture he’d attempted and failed on many a year’s holidays, and while he could wait for such a time and place where his search would be more promising, it was insensible to live on failed candy runs. Even during such festivities. 

Luckily he could be alone with his thoughts save the minimized staff and flickering lights, having collected a majority of the dry and preserved supplies on his list he decided to go through the produce section, only to make eye contact with the stock girl as she was doing some spot cleaning.

She swallows a little around what ever thought he brings to mind and asks, “Do you have any bad habits? I know I do. Talking during work for one.” 

“But really, this is my second job so I can’t say they aren’t gettin’ what they bought.” she laughs for a minute to rewind herself, and, she takes it in full he isn’t much perturbed. “You know it’s sleepless weeks like this that bring back memories of my Aunt, and well maybe the caffeine pills but, I just go into a fugue. Fightin’ memories.”

“Like from a time when I was young and she didn’t think she knew,” 

“Like, ‘You can let on and on, about how you’re a sexual being from cradle to grave, but that’s nowhere near the abuse in lettin’ em know that queer types exist. And after she thought of it and thought it mattered who I was.” she said like it was the silliest notion, “folks like you just are. But you know, there are worse things than being unhappy on earth. That’s why I’ve never hidden my garbage, or played politics at communion.” she says with a troubling sarcasm, like it wasn’t an incredible pain to convince churchy blue-hairs of anything interesting.

She continued, “But it’s like, for me, not to crash the party, but not sinkin’ in the tax credits ain’t the same as hostin’ a clambake’. No confusion I’ll still throw hands, but it seems silly going on an’ on when we know how uncle so&so deals with girls in the family.” She said almost certainly referencing a singleton lifestyle and while he almost wanted to respond he also didn’t want to interrupt.

“Or well, how you make ‘em deal with uncle so&so.” she said, ‘you’ referring to the aunt yet again. “But You know what, bitch can still throw hands over hubby-bear and I’m still barely livin’ the same as ever. So I really don’t get it.”

“I mean, I got issues but it’s not like my sister has kept more of her teeth with her own and the gaggle.”

“And I can’t help but think, I could say, I dodged a bullet, but I really mean, I dodged a mack-truck. You don’t have to know what I mean but, it was nice talkin’ with you.”

“Alright.” He says, as the employee goes off speaking gibberish to herself. While he went to actually pay for his groceries once he was a little less shellshocked of course. Knowing full well that small experiences like that could be a weekly occurrence, even if the result was rarely a piece of competent communication.

He feels a buzzing, as he walks from the produce section and to the cash register. He notices a spill in one of the aisles, and thinks ah, I should warn someone about that. Though it slips his mind rather easily once the buzzing stops.

When he goes up to pay for his groceries, he makes a point to look back at the aisle in question, “There's a mess in aisle 16.” He says to the clerk.

 They gave him a puzzled look and in reply, “There is no aisle 16.” she says statically, before raising her pointer finger and saying, “wait a minute.” And walking away.

He looks past where the clerk went, as she very bodily dragged her coworker, the lady with the life story over for whatever reason. He takes a moment otherwise to concern himself with the sudden shift in colors everything in the store had taken.

The unfamiliarity of it all.

“Look, I can’t be too particular about what dimension I’m in, but this guy- this guy was just shopping here. You can’t just drag folks out like this.” The clerk said worried to her coworker.

“What, do you even think he noticed?”

“I noticed.” He said, having noticed.

“See, he noticed- Oh no you noticed.”

“Yeah.”

“I am so fucken sorry.” Went the girl with the mop, and the apparently dimension hopping powers.

“That’s alright,” he says, accepting the enormity of the situation, “this is like your second job right?”

“Well you see this is my third job, actually.”

“Getting high on the weekends is not a job.” The clerk says.

“Than what do ya call working here?”

They continue on as he turns his attention to the confection stand right next to the cash register, and he feels like he recognizes the dark bars in the tin paper wrapping. The clerk comes over to scan his things having finished the important part of her scolding.

“Thank god it works the same here.” She says, playing with the setup.

“Is that a concern?”

“Sometimes. It’s usually more noticeable if it is.” She says, smiling. She seemed dull before, but their must’ve been something nice about sharing the absurdity of it all.

“Hey, if you plan on leaving soon you mind leaving me here if you can?”, he says as he put all of his groceries back in his cart. The Clerk says, “That’s fine. But you’ll need to leave soon if you want to stay here.”

He leaves the store like they were also. Though, from what he understood it wouldn’t look like anything to him. He leaves the store for the parking lot, knowing that he was back home in a way that he never had been before.

He snaps a blackish sliver from the bar, and lets it melt like butter on his tongue. Goodness, he was home wasn’t he?