Sun feathers in the creases of my jeans. The light is calked over the car window and pressed into my skin. Soft cheese, pork salad, Cheshire; rolls individually wrapped in tinfoil, labelled with a marker pen in shorthand. I feast and recline behind dust smattered windscreen. Baby asleep in the back, head to the left hand side. Marshmallow lips pink wordless. Coming and going shoppers round and round, diesel and petrol mixing in a concrete box, white line rows. Rattling trolley free radicals. Rustling carrier bags. A wind rounds them up, bottle clank and multi-radio pathogens. Remix lunacy carried with desperation smoke at the end of a journey. No cigarettes in the car opens the door for a grandchild who abseils down on to the gridlock from his four-by-four. They have everything here, glassware, kitchenware, white goods, soft goods – supermarket cheap words jammed into boot-slam hideaway. Drive.
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