Pickles｜Stream of Consciousness Story

Penny was in a bad mood that day.
The sky was grey, the clouds were frighteningly low, and the air smelled of burnt bubbles.

She lowered her head and walked into the store that never seemed happy, a narrow grocery store on an uphill road.
Just at the door, you can smell the pungent and damp smell of dried vegetables, as if to remind you of its existence, but it is not very public, it is the smell of time.

There are some seasonal vegetables, fruits and flowers piled up at the door. Because of the narrow door, people pass by occasionally with broken thoughts, or with expressionless but anxious faces waiting to pass; Penny grabbed two tulips and a branch. Knowing what the frying-looking flower was, he absently took a bag of apples and bananas, and thought of something out of the corner of his eye, and turned to look at Friedas in the aisle next to him.
She is a bloated old lady who always wears a wool check skirt.

"Actually took pickled cucumbers again, and it's still a horseback card. 』

Since her husband passed away, Friedas has been going to the supermarket or grocery store to buy three cans of Horseback-branded pickles every week. Penny felt incredible for her at first, but for a moment she thought that what Friedas bought was not a pickle, but she couldn't see it herself.

Staggering to the counter, the checkout Jerry mumbled "hello" and helped her get a plastic bag, of course helping her put everything in with a blank face. When Penny left, he didn't even raise his eyebrows, only raised his flat voice:

"I wish you have a nice day. 』

Penny knew instantly that the person who invented the plastic bag was a genius.

・ ・・

The story of being able to write pickled cucumbers is purely a favorite movie "Goodbye Lenin". (I will introduce it later) This should be the earliest origin of my contact with communist culture and my longing for it (not that kind of longing). The character interactions in the story are all I observed while studying and traveling in Europe. (Especially the part of the greeting, which has no warmth at all)

The timing is approaching the end of the year, and I always feel very tired at the end of the year; everything in our daily life is like a stretched rubber band, we get up, cheer up, encourage ourselves, and occasionally smirk or cry to protest to life own efforts and dissatisfaction. At this time, I was like a race runner who wanted to sneak a step or two forward when the guns sounded at the start of next year; but I didn’t want to win anyone, I just wanted to stretch my relaxed self until next year. Making sure there is work to the last minute is not a slacker way; there is a shirk that I run so hard on, and if I still can't catch up, it's not my problem. Is it a peaceful anxiety?

This is the feeling of all young people of my generation, unless the topic of this life is not how to take the lead in terms of economy and quality of life. This is my last Christmas with the prefix 2. From next year, my life numbers will jump to the next level. Suddenly, I am so far away from my 20-year-old self. I feel that the efforts of the past 10 years are coming to an end, and the next efforts are another a world.

But before that, when I was 20 years old, I really wanted to take a vacation.