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Being in a store after the customers leave has always felt strange. An empty store is a forbidden space, but I'm here. I'm touching things with no one around. Even going in employee only areas feels wrong, even though an hour ago it felt normal. I'm allowed there, my purse is there instead of on me, hidden from the public.
Post covid, Post fentenol, it feels even more eerie.
It is both relieving and dreadful when the customers leave.
A relief because they're finally gone. No more surprises. No more Karens staring through you as they demand you climb a fixture and see if the dress on the mannequin fits them. No danger of being knocked over by professional shoplifters rushing out with an arm full of jeans. No more junkies wandering in and doing junkie things.
But when I finally leave this liminal space, what am I walking out to?
Are those hollow shells in the distance the literal walking dead?
Is that a trail of blood leading to the sleeping man on the train, or spilled frap?
The busted phone and discarded sneaker on the side of the road, does it have a deeper meaning?
Am I going home, or on a quest?
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