The sourness of well-traveled shopping carts is replaced with that good, earthy smell as I roll through the automatic doors and inhale the fresh morning.
Tiny wheels are much louder against the asphalt just before six.
The parking lot is a wasteland of empty seats after a long party—all open space and scraps of food and paper. A huge crow looks me in the eye like a Western showdown and continues pecking at a used napkin.
I pack paper bags into the popped trunk and mourn the loss of two bottles of Merlot that could not be purchased before seven. Now, the drunks are still red-eyed and trying to stay on a train that will inevitably crash.
I wonder if grapes really taste different if picked at night. To know, I will have to return during reality. For now, I imagine men wearing pajamas in a vineyard.
