I stand in front of the meat counter looking down at all the shrink-wrapped, Styrofoam platters of meat . . . other shoppers, their carts laden with frozen dinners, ketchup, peanut butter and laundry soap, move in and around me. I am glued to the stained and dirty white tile, shifting from one foot . . . and then to the other whenever someone reaches around me for a package . . . tossing it into a cart with the speed of a Christie’s auctioneer selling a rare painting . . .