The sky is vomit green, like the apocalypse is coming, like I’m eight and staring out the doors of the save-u-more in Alaska while my mom shops for groceries in bulk. The streetlights and buildings and neon signs feel hollow, now, against such an angry sky- one of those moments where you see your own town for what it is: a rest stop. The interstate cuts right through the east side, and I’m one of the lifeless characters who populates a world that most people only visit to pee and get a shitty cup of coffee at the gas station.
Unbothered by the end of the world outside, the old ladies are still shopping, wheeling overflowing carts around the racks crowded with clothes that smell of antique shops, of laundry soap, of my friend from high school’s house, of cigarettes, of the closet full of patronizing, hideous banners with white felt lilies at the front of the church I went to as a kid. One lady pauses to run worn fingers over a few sweaters, the hangers clacking together, and I wonder how many times she’s watched the world end outside the doors of a goodwill. It must get boring; I imagine I, too, someday, will barely even glance at the churning sky outside. Half off green tags is much more interesting.