He clips the microphone to my sweater and I say “test, test, test, what if we ask some experts?”
It snowed in the mountains nearby and one morning I could see the snow closer than before. At night, when I cross the street to the 7-11, my limbs lose power and I can barely make it across the parking lot in slow motion, the guy from Pizza Hut always looking at me through the locked glass door of his domain. I am a lone alien in the night.
I only shiver once I get inside the convenience store, my entire body shuddering on cue. Sometimes, one of the clerks scans the wrong barcode on his sheet of items and charges me a dollar more for the Mexican pastry that is listed at seventy nine cents. One guy even said to me, “Oh yeah, there it is, there’s a Mexican pastry and a regular one,” which really means that the owner might be a bit racist. Still, the Mexican pastries in the glass cabinet are always tasty, and a much better deal than the donuts with pink sprinkles in the other display, which remind me of eating plastic.