KLEARLY KOMBUCHA KLUELESS

YOU: In front of me at the grocery checkout line at 12:39pm.  Approximately 5’7, long straight dark hair, green eyes, glasses slightly too large for your face (I reserved judgment).  Plaid button up with cashmere pullover, black crescent moon choker, five ox leather bracelets with undetermined tribal pattern on your left wrist, two of brushed silver adorned your right, each with turquoise brick inlay - I failed to decipher the etched inscription.  Brown pencil skirt neatly paired with black leggings, canvas high tops with some sort of occult inspired print - your scent was a mix of lavender and public school library. Grocery total came to $12.77 and included your donation to Feeding America.

ME: 5’11 and ¾.  Dark, curly hair in need of a trim, “Han Shot First” tri-blend tee with gray undershirt, nondescript black overcoat, jeans with a tear flaunting my right kneecap (you noticed).  I have not worn a watch since high school. Items on the conveyor as follows: a single Granny Smith apple, bagged. Caramel treats, a peanut butter protein bar, vegetable bouillon and small bag of extra long grain enriched rice. I did not keep the receipt.

WE: Both purchased a 16 oz bottle of Synergy, your flavor was “Tantric Turmeric” and mine was “Heart Beet”.  While we agreed on the uncertain etymology of kombucha, we butted heads regarding the more therapeutically effective bacterial component.  The bagger gave merit to both arguments, though I ultimately acquiesced, deferring to your superior knowledge of stirred reactors and symbiotic cultures.  Neither of us wanted to make a lusty ruckus at this particular Whole Foods.

I’m sorry I declined the immediate invitation to meet your demon of a mother. Shall we meet again to discuss whether Spanish rain actually stays mainly in the plain?