Supermarket. The ceiling soars into an industrial cathedral and gives the fresh food section a feeling of open air. Along the wall lined up refrigerated cases filled with mounds of green leaves, the mister opens up and dampens my sunglasses. The rows of fruit and vegetables snake maze-like, a labyrinth of reds and greens and oranges. The air smells scrubbed, with the earthy musk long sprayed away. Plastic clamshells form a jewel box to display perfectly formed strawberries. Five corn cobs, cleared of all extra silk and leaves lie on a black foam tray cello-sealed in. They look like clones, all sprung from the same plastic corn. The tomatoes are in season, and there is a mountain of red beefsteaks piled into a chaotic pyramid in a bin near the door. I can't find the blueberries, but I feel they must be here somewhere.
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