One Item, Technically

Needed cold medicine. The specific kind, the one that actually works on the particular kind of congestion I get in October when the temperature drops twelve degrees overnight and my body has opinions about it. In and out, I told myself. Ten minutes.

Twenty-five minutes later I was at the checkout with: the cold medicine, two hand creams (one regular, one because it said 'barrier repair' and that felt important in October), a candle that I genuinely do not need but that smelled like something I couldn't name, a roll of shelf liner, which, fine, I actually did need, and a thing I am fairly certain I already own in some form at home. The woman at the register scanned everything without comment. I appreciated that.

Reading the back label of the thing I didn't come in for.

I've been thinking about this phenomenon. It's not impulsive, exactly. It's more like, the pharmacy in October is a very specific ambient pressure. The seasonal aisle has been rearranged. There are display bins at the end of every row. The lighting is indifferent in a way that makes you feel like decisions are low-stakes. You pick something up to read the back and then it's just in your hand and the basket is right there. I stood in front of the hand cream for probably four minutes. Four minutes.

Checkout. The register does not judge you.

I got home, put the cold medicine on the bathroom shelf, set the candle on the kitchen table next to the prints that are still leaning against the wall, and thought: this is fine. This is what October is for. The shelf liner is actually going in the cabinet under the sink and I am very pleased about it. The rest we'll see about.