Free Expiration Dating by G.T. Marie

yanking on his shoulder as I nearly went down.
    “Sorry,” I said as he rubbed his arm. I took a firm grip on the pole for the rest of the ride.
    We got off a few stops short of his exit and meandered around the streets. We were in a new section of town and lost track of time as we examined the quaint shops. There were innumerable restaurants, cafés and specialty stores. Andrew’s confusion was apparent as we passed a store selling only scarves.
    “How do these stores make mon ey?” He stopped in front of a window, arms folded. I fidgeted under his gaze.
    “I guess I never really thought about i t.” I looked down at the ground.
    “Seriously, though. I’ve seen places that sell only socks, only chess boards, only… heck I’ve seen a store that sells only pens. How do they survive?” He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it even more. “It doesn’t economically make sense.”
    “I guess. Hey, where’s your supermercado?” I started walking again. He breathed a large sigh and followed my footsteps down the street. I had no idea where we were headed.
    We eventually saw PAM, a grocery store that didn’t exist in my area of Milan. We walked inside, Andrew stopping to pet the dog chained to the door. I didn’t stop; I wasn’t going to get pet slobber on my hands before I picked out my fruit for the day. We walked around the store, Andrew commenting on how much he loved exploring grocery stores. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye; it was a shared passion, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
    We took our time, me listening intently while he explained t he names and origins of all the exotic fruits. I stood by, touching each and every one. There was one fruit shockingly orange, mushy to the point of spongy that looked incredible. I pointed and asked what its name was. At his answer, I gave a small snort.
    “Cocky?” I picked up the squishy fruit. “You’re telling me, you eat cocky?”
    In response, Andrew pointed at the sign. It read: Khaki.
    “The Italian word is khaki; in English we call them persimmons.”
    “Right.” I quickly set the fruit down. I strode over to the broccoli and reached for a head. Was it called a head of broccoli? I was putting it in the plastic bag when Andrew laid a hand on my arm.
    “Don’t get the broccoli . It’s out of season.”
    “So?” I asked.
    “So, you should stick with the stuff that’s in season. It tends to be much fresher, not to mention cheaper.”
    I left the broccoli l ying in the plastic bag, in the pile of the rest of the broccoli heads or whatever they’re called.
    “How do you know so much, huh? How do you have that much room in your brain?” I tapped Andrew’s noggin next to his right temple.
    He shrugged. “My mom is smart, and I guess I just picked it up from her. I don’t know. It’s just something you grow up with, I guess.”
    “Guess so,” I said, striding to the apples. Maybe that’s why he talked so sophisticated. I picked up an apple, hoping that my try was a charm. Andrew cleared his throat.
    “What now?” I held a plastic bag in one hand, an apple in the other and turned to face him. Andrew put the broccoli I’d left sitting in the bag back in its rightful place. He simultaneously pointed at a sign near the fruit that seemed to shout instructions in Italian. I had no idea what it said.
    “You need to put the plastic gloves on before touching the fruit,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the aisle. Sure enough, there was a picture of a person pulling on the oversized plastic gloves.
    “No one will care.” I continued selecting my apples.
    A s I spoke, an Italian lady standing at one of the cashiers waddled over, her purple hair bouncing under the fluorescent lights. I had no idea what the stream of words meant that exploded out of her mouth, but I could tell they weren’t good.
    She grabbed the glove from its box and showed me how to insert my hand. I wanted to tell her the problem wasn’t me