I hunt through the soft cheeses for a chunk of Roquefort. Cheese shouldn't be the focus—not French cheese, not at Whole Foods—the priciest store—not when my checking account balance is so low. But the comfort from the green neon sign and the promise of health and fulfillment soothes me like a balm.
Palming cheese, I picture stashing it in my pocket, anticipating the chill against my thigh through the fabric. It's small enough, just a wedge. I could walk through the swoosh of the automatic doors into the sizzling sun and scrape gooey cheese off my leg during the drive home—all to avoid charging $5 to the credit card.
I cradle the hunk against my fluttering heart and recall my latest promising audition—a promo for a pharmaceutical company in which I played a doctor recommending a new eczema drug. I’ll (hopefully) hear from my agent very soon about a callback.
Oh, to not feel the terrible twist in my belly whenever the balance receipt shoots out from the ATM, the thermal paper warm with judgment.
The hairs on my arms stand to attention. I check the price of the cheese: $5.75 for a bleu. Well, cheaper than bail for shoplifting. The cheese is tiny all alone at the bottom of the basket.
My cell pings as I head for the grapes. The screen displays a flower emoji and a heart emoji. It's him, and I smile. Heart emoji. That’s a step.
A fellow actor - also broke - we met while performing in a play. What is he, exactly? Boyfriend? Occasional lover? He doesn't like labels.
I text: Nice… hearts to you. Come over for dinner later?
He texts: … Can't. Working until 1 am. Miss you tho.
He moonlights as a DJ for his cousin's Bar Mitzvah business. We say "hearts" instead of love. I mean love but I’m not sure he does. I glance at my scuffed shoes. Yesterday, I hiked up the Palisades Canyon to the cliffside. The ocean was a glimmering shade of aqua dotted with white sailboats. It looked magical, the breeze light enough that not even a ripple danced across the water. Everything seems possible when you are that high up.
I text back: Aw. I wanna relax with wine, cheese, TV & you. (Sad face emoji)
I shouldn't have mentioned wine because now I want wine. Is there a $10 bottle or less that won’t remove the enamel from my teeth? A frizzle of ache shimmies down my spine as other shoppers casually place items in carts, oblivious to price, their clothes cost more than I probably make in a week as a part-time caterer.
Every night I bolt awake: How can I make more money? How many more jobs can I do? I read somewhere that Tom Cruise once tipped a server thousands because he knew she was going through a rough time. Where can I find Tom Cruise???
The DJ didn’t return my text. The three dots appear and fade away to nothing. His communiqués offer slivers of hope but are reminders that I only get crumbs.
I drop the basket and crouch. An untamed hunger thrums through my body, pulsing to the beat of the piped-in music. I unwrap the cheese and shove the creamy mound into my hot mouth. My fingers are stained slate blue and smell like gamey socks, but I lick off the cheese. Every. Last. Bite.
I stalk the snacks aisle, which is usually off-limits for me but I don’t care. A frivolous box of vegan crackers, truffle mustard, canned octopus. Fancy pre-packaged eclairs. Dried porcini mushrooms and Ponzu sauce. A frenzy builds inside me, like a poked beehive. The stink of Roquefort taunts me.
Up in that canyon yesterday I promised to the air, to the ocean, to the squirrels lurking in scrub brush: I will get out of debt and I will be an actor! Oh, yesterday.
Aisle by aisle, I rip things from shelves until the basket heaves. And I get the damn wine.
I can smell it, taste it, feel it.... Really beautiful short.