masquerade by Isabella Melians (16, Florida)

10:17 PM 
I wear ripped jeans, 
cuffed at the ankles, 
that sway with each step 
along these glossed 
linoleum floors. ​

---

Crackling music falls 
through the intercoms. 
I feel my heart beat 
with the static rhythms, 
pulsing against my ribs. 

One step, two steps, three steps I stand in front of the 
refrigerated milk. 
An elongated face peers at me, I wonder who it belongs to. 


10:31 PM 
I make eye contact 
with the girl 
across the aisle. 
She picks up mustard 
and sets it back down. 

She squints at me, 
or smiles 
I can't tell 
and snaps the elastic 
against her ear. 

She waltzes down the corridor,
letting her fingers linger 
on the mayonnaise and relish.
She reaches the end, turns right, and
quickly disappears from view.


10:42 PM 
A boy tugs at his mother’s sleeve,
motioning to his face. 
She shushes him, 
pulling the mask up along 
the bridge of his nose. 

They walk towards 
the fruit. 
A stack of apples obstructs 
them from sight, 
revealing only muddy sneakers. 

The music is interrupted: 
“twenty minutes until closing.”
They hastily shove tangerines
​into their pockets 
before scurrying away. 


10:53 PM 
Cashier number nine 
I place my items 
on the conveyor belt, 
and watch as they are snatched by
slender, pasty hands. 

His glasses fog 
with each heavy exhale. 
I can’t see the crinkle of his eyes,
he is nothing 
but a pale figure. 

“$30.85” 
The coins fall into his hand,
nestling into the grooves of his palm.
We nod at each other 
before parting ways.

​