Asian market gothic
You enter the store. You are craving ramen. Specifically, chicken flavor. You go to the ramen aisle. There is shrimp flavor in 18 different brands, all written in either Japanese Chinese, or Korean. You see scattered everywhere in the same languages miso flavor, general salt flavor, spicy flavor, teriyaki flavor, curry flavor. Finally, you find a single packet of chicken ramen in a brand you’ve never eaten. You accept it to your cart.
You turn around and see the tea aisle. You want 2 boxes of your favorite green tea with brown rice, but you can only get 1 and get the other in a different brand. There are no duplicates, yet there is a neverending aisle of tea that stretches to no man’s land. You reach your hand inside the shelves. The farther you reach, the farther back in history you travel. You pull out a box of tea from the Xia dynasty. Upon observing the leaves, it seems to have still not expired.
You walk to the produce. There are strange fruits from Brazil. There are strange fruits from Japan. There are strange fruits from India. There are strange fruits from the deepest point of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. There are strange fruits that were grown on the rings of Saturn. There are strange fruits from the Andromeda Galaxy.
You make the mistake of going to the beauty counter. Your favorite BB cream is there. You ask how much it is. The lady smiles at you. She is 55, yet she looks like she has just come out of her mother’s womb three hours ago. She tells you it is $50. Her glasses have a beaded chain on them. Her hair is cropped to her chin or shoulders depending on the day. She can grow it at will. All that indicates her age is the existence of microscopic crow’s feet among her eyes. She is so friendly. You can get the same BB cream on Amazon for 10 dollars. She smiles. You are passive. You are kind. She smiles. It is five times normal price. You need it. She smiles. You slip a 50 onto the counter. You leave with the BB cream and approximately 40 dollars worth of free samples.
There seems to be a strip of workers all wearing plastic gloves. It stretches for miles and miles. The food is served in a pattern. Choco pies, mini weenies, bourbon chicken, repeat. There is an attractive Korean man with untoned blond hair handing you a mini weenie while a petite chubby-cheeked young Chinese girl with her black hair in a hairnet hands you ¼ of a Choco pie. You cannot decide which to choose. You sweat nervously as their arms tire from holding up the toothpicks as the food becomes heavier and heavier on the end of them. Their faces cramp from bright smiles. Your pulse rises before you faceplant into the durians, the worst possible place.