The grocery store pumps Party in the USA into our ear-holes as we browse the last of the russet potatoes.

All of the yams are gone.

I settle on pair of peppers instead. The poblanos are untouched. It’s that kind of store. More for me, uninfected, then.

The roll of produces bags is thick; it must have just been replaced. Wary of coating this public resource in my finger funk, I struggle to find the edge of a bag until a finger hovers into frame to point out the place of purchase.

I seize hold of the squirrelly edge, then follow the friendly finger to its source.

“Ah, you got it,” says the voice of a particle mask. The yellow-banded mask looks like a survivor from the fire months. It is attached to a cracked face.

I say nothing, but I nod my head like “yeah.”

I back away from him, moving my hips like “yeah.”

I know it’s going to be okay.

It’s a party in the USA.