Chilanga Sprinkles

Your born-too-late hippie heart wants edible flowers, so you go to the grocery store of privilege. You go there when your hippie heart wants stuff, because you know hippies and guccies like similar things. 

You brush your teeth, debate whether to throw on a bra and nearly decide against it. It’s not quite triple-digits hot yet, so you open the sunroof and let the wind try to undo yesterday’s braids. The sun warms your bare arms and makes you just sweaty enough to momentarily turn on the air conditioning and lift your elbows shoulder height to dry your pits. 

The parking lot is being revamped and parking is tight. You decide not to fight it and go to the back of the lot. Inside you find the packages of edible flowers and grab a couple. You only need one, but you feel greedy today. You run your fingertips over the white asparagus, wishing you’d waited to come here before buying food for the week. You pick up a pie shell in the freezer section —- you’ve never mastered pid shells —- and head out.

On the side walk you spot your boss. She is a hugger and she has spotted you. She smiles, spreads her arms, and just like that you are in them, in all your au jus splendor and askew hair.