Vons on Pico

"Four dollars a bottle, can't beat that. Can't beat that."
"Oh, there's another one there. Should I get it? No."
"Get it, get it, we'll save it."
There are seven bottles of red wine on the belt, two bottles of white. The larger woman in front of me twists her hand through the bars to get that last bottle of four dollar red wine on the rack next to the register.
"I bet some wine connoisseur came in and grabbed it all up!"
They share a laugh. The smaller woman comments on labels and wines I'm already trying to forget. They speak the way I do when I say Charles Shaw rather than Two Buck Chuck, but they're serious. I'm wondering how much they'll drink tonight. I won't be drinking any at all tonight, cause I figure it'd be a bad habit to drink when I don't have work. Feels wrong, wine should be to celebrate, I'll only feel worse. So I stare at my pitiful pile, bread, yogurt, and black beans. I have a five dollar bill, and I'm thrilled I'll have change.
"No, John."
"But shrimp is nasty."
"No, John, we have chicken."
"Can I get some noodles?"
"No, you are not getting one more thing John."
"Mom?"
"No John! Do you know what no means? What does no mean?"
This mother looks dead at me.
"Sorry baby. You'll get yours. Someday. You got some?"
I laugh, madly, too loudly. Starved. "No. No."
She gives a glare. I retreat to my bones, startled. Even the winos in front of me turn their daze at me, the middle of this pathetic tired worn out woman sandwich. We the life givers, none of us the same at all, ghosts of ourselves.