It’s one of those nights. Things blend in an amalgamation of dream mush; envelope you in a world constructed of reality and beyond. The light overhead: is it more orange than usual? It flickers and you swear you hear static. The creepy old-timey sound of tuning a radio. Shrouded in nowhere, you’re in the middle of an all-night grocery store. You thought it made sense to work here. Few come at night. You get time to write although all you’re producing is psychedelic poetry stemming from two a.m. static flicker over dusty rows of ancient cereal boxes and ramen noodles.

“Shit, man!” you jump. The thick black hooded sweatshirt masks face and size. Shadows hint at stubble. At tired eyes bruised purple underneath.

He empties the basket methodically.

Carrots. Duct tape. A cooler.

He pays, opens his backpack. You spot a framed picture of Ed McMahon and a dog-eared self help book. You drop to his hand, the one you’re afraid to touch, the seven cents in change. It clangs to the counter.

You blinked.

He’s gone.