A Stand in Aisle Two

Slipped out the door and marched down the pavement into a bright corner shop. The glass doors slid apart with a hiss. Inside, tall racks smelled of cardboard and cold metal. I found a low shelf. A heavy stack of canned fruit sat solid. I squared my stance. Lowered my snout. Pushed. The tins rattled, deep and hollow. Suddenly, a pair of boots stopped cold right before me. A tall clerk gasped, clutching a broom handle tight, staring down at my bared teeth. He backed away slowly, reaching for a wall phone, whispering in a frantic hurry. I did not run. I held my post beside the cans, unmoving.