The Line

The line at the truck goes along the wall and around the corner. Everyone has a jug or two. The driver fills each to the neck, screws on the cap, and says where it is going: Chicon. The school plots. Four, and the woman with that jug starts up the steel stair. By the stair a stack of white buckets stands for anyone who asks, each with a lid on a string. You take two.

The girl ahead of you rests one finger on her phone. Rings come out from under her fingertip and keep coming as long as she rests it there. She drags them sideways into one slow current and holds still while it turns. Her jug stands empty between her feet.

The line moves a jug at a time. Above you the kale on seven hangs straight down in the sun. At this rate your turn is an hour off.