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December
26, 2005. I bring the items to the counter: 4 avocados on the near-edge of over-ripe. 2 plantains. A loaf of Bimbo wheat bread. Chips, a tomato, a can of green tea. "Es todo?" the Greek man says, as he deftly palms the different produce and sets it onto the scale in quick succession. He looks up at me, realizes maybe I don't know that tidbit of Spanish, and clarifies: "that it?" I'm in mid-nod, so I just say yes, and before I know it, it's all bagged, and I am handing him exact change. The streets outside are very, very empty. I think lots of people must still be out of town. Someone's stuck a piece of paper to my car that says, "CAR FOR SALE, 773 XXX-XXXX." I laughed when I first saw it yesterday when my mom dropped me back home. "How enterprising," I said, "for them to let me know that they'll try to sell me their car, since I am obviously in need." The paper was on the street today, covered in mud. It's just as well. I'd likely have thrown it there myself, after realizing that someone might think that that number was to sell my car. Today has been one of the quietest days of my life. go
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