So you hear a woman ask one of the guys packing yoghurts onto the shelves in the fridge section where the Pesto is.
The strange thing about this place is that the cement floor is so polished the neon lighting bounces up and everything that happens in the isles is played out again in reverse beneath your feet.
So you're watching these reverse images and thinking the paragraph above when the woman's voice cuts through asking about the pesto again.
The silence draws a line in the sand somehow and you realise life is pushing you to be the kind of person who isn't quite sure what pesto is or the sort of woman who demands it of strangers as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
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