Each sunday,
the owner's face lit up
as I popped in the neighborhood bodega
in need of paper towels, soap, toothpaste.
Occasionally, when I uttered the word “purple,”
his brown eyes glowed and he flashed me a smile
as he fetched the Trojan condoms behind the counter.
This week,
I came in on saturday,
he looked pleasantly surprised to see me,
earlier in the week.
until I reached the counter
holding tampons, desperate to stop my leaking body.
In my humanity,
I was no longer ****,
not worthy of a smile.
Nor the well wishes of a nice evening.
His greetings had always had an invisible price tag,
exchanged for a glimmer of hope.
The hope that his kind words would
earn him a discount in the time it took
for me to live up
to his fantasy
one day.
