I join the hungover herd, filing into Kroger early on Mother's Day. I follow directly behind a man in a rented tux he wore to a wedding the night before. I watch his shoes shine as he walks, slightlight hesitantly, definitely hung over, toward sliding doors.
A man in a motorized scooter grabs at every Mother's Day-themed card within arms' reach. Pink roses. "Dear Mom..." Cartoon lady mice in tea-time bonnets. "Mother" in pink French Script. "I'm building a shrine," the man says, his bulbous belly stretching lintynavy polo, his curly-thin arm hair growing up around the stretchy band of his watch. Pause. "Outside my apartment."
The guy in the rented tux rounds the corner with a gallon jug of water. He places the distilled liquid on the Kroger tile, rubs his eyes to redness, and plucks a card after a brief period of discernment. The man in the scooter says, "I'm building a shrine," and adds another card to his stack. I glance at rented tux man. I slept in yesterday's clothes too.
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