Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
The Credit Card Decline
Vince could see the reflection of his sneakers in the immaculate white tile, slightly distorted under the strip lighting above. Somewhere overhead, soft jazz murmured from the speakers, Davis or Coltrane, something warm and comforting. The produce section smelled faintly of fresh basil, cilantro, and eucalyptus hand sanitizer.
He liked it here. The carts glided without wobbles and squeaks. The apples looked hand polished. The displays of sprouted granola were arranged like a sculpture. No one here ran. No one shouted. Best of all, nobody looked twice at a man pushing a cart full of kale, oat milk, and a single fillet of organic salmon.
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