The fluorescent lights hum above him, their flicker like a dying star—so faint, yet so pervasive, like the slow burn of a life unlived. He steps into the produce aisle, and the weight of consumerism presses down on him, an invisible hand on his chest, as the oppression of it all settles into his bones.

Evan picks up an avocado, his fingers lingering on its imperfectly smooth skin. Will it ripen in time? Or will this avocado, too, be just another metaphor for his fleeting desires, rotting away before he can taste its promise of a better tomorrow?

He squeezes it gently. It yields. Soft. Malformed, just like his hopes. A brief, fleeting moment of sensuality. He adds it to his cart, along with his usual 30% manager’s discount.

Why does he do this? Why must he keep seeking these empty pleasures? The avocado, the fleeting desire—it will be gone in days, replaced by another promise of satisfaction that will never arrive. It’s a cycle—an endless, crushing cycle. The same cycle he finds himself trapped in every day.

Next, he stumbles into the apples. The rows stretch before him like an illusion. Fuji. Gala. Granny Smith. So many choices, and yet none of them really fit. He longs for the Chad aisle—the aisle of flawless, unattainable perfection.

The bitterness of the Granny Smith stares back at him, too familiar. The sweet fragility of the Fuji—too soft. It’s all a metaphor for his life. Apples that should be Chads, always promising, but forever out of reach, taunting him with their perfect skin.

Evan reaches for a Granny Smith. It feels right in his hand, but it’s not. It’s just another fruit—a hollow substitute for what he really craves. Resignation. It’s the best he can do. He places it in the cart. Discounted. It’s the right decision for now, though he knows it’s not. He’s always disappointed by the Granny Smiths in the end.

Moving to the deli section, dread wraps itself around his chest like a noose. The prepackaged deli meats stare at him from their sterile, plastic-wrapped tombs. Processed. The meat, his thoughts, his existence—everything is just processed now. Where did it all go wrong?

He stares at the ham—shiny, like the false promises of a better life. A label screams: NEW! 20% more! More of what, exactly? More ham? More despair?

Evan sighs, choosing a pack of turkey slices, his hollow compromise. "This will be fine," he mutters, "I’ll make the sandwiches. It’ll be enough." But deep down, he knows. It won’t be. It never is.

Finally, Evan reaches the checkout lane. His expectation of royal treatment as a manager falters when Sheila, the Black cashier, takes her sweet time, moving with the languor of someone who has seen too much.

The conveyor belt—the symbol of his once hopeful, now shattered, life—feels like a lifeline. But even in this final moment, the absurdity of existence intrudes: Sheila’s checkout machine beeps.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”

Isn’t it all? The existential void. The unrelenting march of time.

Sheila barely glances up. She’s seen it all before. A casual scan. A murmur of indifference. As the total flashes on the screen—$42.75—Evan wonders: Is this it? A small sum for a momentary satisfaction? Is this satisfaction even real?

Sheila’s gaze never lifts. She finishes the transaction without ceremony, her silence louder than any word. He bags his own groceries, head down, lost in thought. Will I ever break free from this cycle? Will I ever find something—anything—that truly nourishes me?

The doors slide open, and Evan39 steps out of the grocery store, clutching his bags like a desperate man holding on to the last shreds of his sanity. A brief glimmer of hope. Then, it too slips away. The world may never deserve him.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5636082&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=3986969",#48350709)