1.8

Aisle seven of the Food 4 Less contains no fewer than all of my least favorite foods. My mother knows this—knows my fear of canned goods, and sent me after artichoke hearts just to spite me. Trundling with my head down and elbows tight, I bull-rushed the hell zone. I would get the artichokes or die trying, like a penguin rushing 400 miles to the antarctic coast only to jump directly into an orca's mouth.
My orca was waiting for me: a teen of unbelievable height and breadth, built like a Mack truck and with the brute strength of a hippo, standing directly in the middle of the aisle with a defiant leather jacket and raiders pendants swinging from her dainty earlobes. I careened straight through but stopped abruptly as my forehead made solid contact with her flabbergasted armpit. My legs lifted out from under me and my feet, spread eagle, sending canned tomatoes cascading in solid waterfalls of hateful cylinders. I instinctively scrambled from the torrent, using her elbows and knees like a climbing wall. When I suddenly found us eye to eye, I realized that, after all, my mother would have to do without artichokes today.