And this guy, middle forties maybe, he’s munching a cookie he has yet to pay for—he’s munching it at the back of the store. Where he’s munching it, that’s right in front of the dairy section. While he’s at it, the munching, maybe he’s scheming to steal a swig of milk.

And this guy, he’s no bum—he’s a suited businessman just stepped off the Metra. Where I’m at is parked in my Corolla in the lot. And my eyes are on him through this windshield and through that White Hen’s floor-to-ceiling glass window. My eyes are on him munching this unpaid-for cookie as my mouth munches a cookie of my own.

The difference?

It’s a paid-for cookie I’m munching.

Then, the guy—cookie crumbs newly clinging to his suit, his shirt, his tie—he spots me.

And there we are, squinting each other slowly munching our cookies into oblivion.

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