I've never been a cereal box before, but I have to say it’s thrilling. People used to describe me as sweet… so I guess there is a whole different level to it now. Rectangular, red, among a vast variety of boxes filled with sugary goodness, there’s me, sporting a picture of a bunny, a much cuter and more appealing design compared to the leprechaun next to me. Though an entertaining and new experience, the most exciting aspect of my current form is not the rainbow spheres of breakfast I currently contain. There may be the widest variety of cereal to choose from on these shelves right now, but it's nothing compared to the assortment of people who walk up and down the aisle. For instance, I just saw two women with the most uneven haircuts I’ve ever seen, having a fascinating conversation about microplastics. Not too long after, I saw a man with a league of little girls following him dressed in soccer uniforms being berated about the shiny spot on the back of his head and the length of his shorts. The amount of people wearing low-rise jeans is staggering.

​

Though, nothing compares to the man in front of me now, skinny but not as tall as you think he should be for his stature. He’s sporting baggy jeans, torn-up Converse, and a black shirt with a GhostBusters emblem that looks slightly larger than it should be. His head adorns curly dark hair with streaks of gray, though he’s not old enough to think of that color as normal in the black mop, and glasses too big for his face, but not for his eyes. His cheeks are plump for a man of his estimated age, with a nose that perfectly fits his face and lips that are indistinguishable due to their constant movement, either him talking to himself or biting them.

​

“I could really use some more fiber in my diet… but then again, I think I deserve something a little sweet… but this one is good for cholesterol… this one has such a sick design though…”

​

He’s been doing this for about five minutes, just staring at the options, talking to himself, not quietly, mind you. He’s getting the occasional stares, but he’s oblivious.

​

“Oh! This one has real fruit in it.”

​

He’s animated when talking and has a certain anxious sway when he’s not, like he can’t stand still for more than a moment. He’s cute, really.

​

I’ve been waiting for the right moment, the perfect opportunity. He moves slightly to the left, so he’s not directly in front of me anymore, examining the box of Honey Comb slightly down the aisle from me, lost in his own world. He doesn’t realize it, but he's given me my chance, so I promptly fling myself off the shelf, landing on the floor with a surprisingly loud thud, and like an echo, a slightly quieter scream erupts, one that came from the throat, but not quite making it to the mouth. If I had a mouth I would have laughed and laughed even harder when he peaks his head into the new view of the ceiling I now have, wide eyes, like he had a fright.

​

“Oh man, that gave me a little scare there,” he says as he picks me up, putting in way more effort than needed to get me back on the shelf straight and lined up with my fellow boxes.

​

A couple walks by, staring slightly at the man putting a lot of care into the tidiness of the display. He turns to them, sensing their eyes.

​

“This cereal box just fell off the shelf, pretty weird right? It's almost like it jumped… or something knocked it over, bet it wants me to buy it right?” he giggles, but proceeds, not sensing the couple’s growing irritation, “You know, Fruit Loops may have different colored rings, but did you know they're all the same flavor? Same with Trix. Bit of a betrayal isn’t it?” he laughs, smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. The couple continues their confused yet a bit annoyed stares before slowly shuffling away. The man looks down once they’re out of his view, still smiling to himself a little, but then slowly stops, something solemn crossing his face. He walks away.

​

He didn’t get any cereal.

​

​

 

I’m a bike now. A very stylish one, if I do say so myself, a baby blue exterior with a beige woven basket, and my favorite detail, a bell. I’m leaning up against a tree that sits in the middle of a park next to a maroon picnic table, sort of isolated from the rest of the area, play sets and walking trails a good hundred feet away. In my opinion, it makes it an optimal spot to sit and eat. Clearly, the man from the grocery store thinks so too, walking up now to sit on the bench, groceries in hand. He sets them on the table, and as if on cue, a couple of squirrels hesitantly patter up to him.

​

“Hi there Jack,” he says, a smile growing as he greets one of them, crouching down to make himself smaller, then turns to greet the other.

​

“You’re new, I’m Oliver… you need a name, don’t you… I’ll call you Henry, you look like a Henry,” he says gently.

​

He is slightly odd. I love it.

 

He feeds the squirrels a couple of crackers from his pockets, breaking them in half and setting them softly in front of Jack and Henry, then they scurry away, his smile fading slightly as they run, just slightly. Sighing, he gets up, turns to his grocery bags, and starts unpacking. Two bottles of orange juice, two tubs, one of Greek yogurt and the other of cottage cheese. Lastly, a jar of chunky peanut butter. Sitting down, he rubs his hands together, like he’s about to feast.

​

I know what’s about to happen but it's still a bit jarring when he does sit. He takes out a spoon from his pocket, scoops a bit too generous amount of peanut butter, and plops it in his cottage cheese, happily stirring before shoving a big ol scoop in his mouth. Contentment describes his face, chewing while taking in the scenery around him. Though, as he continues to eat he slowly hunches more in his seat, focusing more on his meal, like he is slowly deflating as he finishes. It’s a quiet scene, but not silent, the birds and squirrels chirping and scurrying. Though they can’t feel as people do, I like to think they'd have some inkling of the harrowing feeling of seeing someone hunched over, looking down at their food, eating alone.

​

This is where my little bell comes in handy.

​

Ring ring.

 

Whiplash would be an understatement for what this man just gave to himself, the sheer speed he whips his head to look at me, the lonely bike on the tree with a bell that mysteriously just rang on its own. He looks away quickly staring into the distance, as if to collect himself.

​

Ring ring.

 

“Oh my god, wh—” he says, whipping back around.

 

Ring ring.

 

He stands up and climbs out of the picnic table, not too gracefully.

 

“What the actual f—”

​

This is great.

 

Ring ring.

 

“No! No way. Stop that,” now speaking to me directly.

 

Ring.

 

“Stop—” he cuts off with a scream, jerking to face the bag of crackers that fell out of his pocket, the one that slightly brushed his leg on the way down. Though startled he bends down to pick up the crackers, a few more fall out of his pockets on the way back up, like a teapot trying to pick up the water it spilled, but just pours out more water. It's endearing, in my opinion.

​

Oliver doesn’t stay long after that, quickly collecting the full bottle and tub of orange juice and Greek yogurt, the half-eaten jar of peanut butter, being sure to collect his trash in the form of an empty cottage cheese container and orange juice bottle. He quickly walks away and I almost miss the slight smile, creating those eye crinkles once more.

​

​

​

When given a choice between Batman and Superman, my answer is always, always, neither. There are so many options for superheroes, too many in fact, judging by the sheer number of action figures that are in this part of the store currently. Shelves upon shelves lined with figurines, tables upon tables filled with comic books, bins filled with $1 movies.

​

No, I would never willingly choose Superman, however, in the plethora of his action figures, ones with pristine paint jobs, bendable knees, and arms, all facing the direction they should be, there is a single figure that is just… perfect. Placed in the far back of the shelf showcasing the Superman action figures, is a Clark Kent that looks like he’s been dragged by a car. Red outlines the eyes leaving just tiny black dots where his pupils are, crimson drips down his face leaking into the cracks in his teeth. Brushes of red scatter across the body, and the kicker, one leg faces backward. The perfect paint job and assembly! Also, the perfect thing to control.

​

It feels like I’m in the back of the pit at a concert, except every person in the audience is also you but you got caught in the rain before your makeup sets. Managing to get to the front of the shelf is like walking through a crowded train except everybody is a bowling pin that you're trying not to knock down, as to not alert the poor minimum wage worker currently just trying to reorganize the comic books on the tables. When I manage to get to the edge, I hear the faint sound of a squeaky door opening, the sound traveling from the small doorway in the far corner leading to a different room. The employee leaves the room to presumably greet the customer, giving me the go-ahead to fling myself off the shelf, barely managing to make it onto a table in front of me, sadly messing up the stack of Batman comics residing on it.

​

“Hi, Toby! How are you doing today? I’m doing fantastic, there's something spooky in the air today, I swear,” I hear from the other room.

​

A sigh, then a, “Hello, Oliver.”

​

From where I've landed, I have a clear view of Oliver walking through the doorway, excitement radiating and his smile blinding. He’s most definitely been here before, yet his astonishment mirrored that of a new customer. It’s a pretty big room, with about nine large tables spaced out evenly, movie bins in each of the four corners, and shelves of action figures lining the back wall. Oliver roams, carefully looking through comic options. His soft movements are sweet, putting extra care into the table's presentability after he's looked through its contents. He eventually makes his way to where I am, gasping slightly when he sees my lone figure.

​

“Oh... oh,” he says as he picks me up, then actually processes my beauty. Looking around, he finds the shelf I belong on, then makes room in the center of the shelf for me to stand on instead of putting me back in the reject row.

​

That’s really nice I think, which makes me feel guilty for what I’m about to do.

 

Oliver turns and walks toward the back left corner, promptly rummaging through a movie bin when he reaches it.

​

A great skill I seem to have today, I fling myself off the shelf, knocking over nearly every other Superman figure in front of me, all of us tumbling to the floor. Landing with my back to Oliver I turned my plastic head, ever so slowly to look at him. Much to my delight he most definitely noticed my spectacle. He’s frozen, eyes the widest I've ever seen them, hand still deep in the movie bin. He just stares, satisfyingly still, his mind clearly racing. When he finally does start to move, he has a faraway look, as if unbelievably disassociated. Quickly, he turns and speed walks to the movie bin directly down the aisle at the front of the room, bumping into nearly all three tables that line the left side of the room. Naturally, I follow, crawling over to the table near the back left movie bin, peeking out around the corner to look directly at Oliver.

​

He’s rummaging, more frantically this time, oblivious to my bloody face staring at him from behind the table's leg. That is until he glances back at the bin eyes stopping abruptly, focusing in on me. Though to his credit, he doesn't make a scene, it would seem he is completely calm until he whips violently back to the movie bin nearly diving into it looking for whatever movie he desperately wants.

​

I move under the table, slowly making my way to the next one down the row. I’m walking like the spider dolls from Toy Story, slightly cursing my backward leg. A bit creepy looking? Yes. Convenient? Not really.

​

I peek around the second table, closer to the front of the room, and thus, Oliver. He turns once again, sees me a lot closer to him, lets out a slight squeak, and rustles through the bin even more frantically. It's like watching a raccoon digging through a dumpster, aware of the garbage truck approaching, threatening to take away its treasure.

​

I start to feel slightly bad. Getting closer I see the sheen of sweat and pure panic in his eyes, maybe I should call it here. But, my curiosity about how he would react if I got even closer to him is a killer of empathy. So I waddle my little bloody Superman to the third table, the one not even five feet away from Oliver and his now-destroyed movie bin, and I peek around the corner once more.

​

I will him to look, but at last, he exclaims a triumphant “ha!” yanking a movie out of the pile, The Exorcist. He admires the case, and then assesses the mess he made, exclaiming a slight “oh!”, and reaches over to what I assume is to organize the bin a bit, but instead plucks another movie, The Blair Witch Project. He has good taste. After admiring his finds for a moment, he begrudgingly peaks back over to the tables, eyes finding me once more. I’m expecting a grand scene, but he just turns and runs out the doorway.

​

Not wanting to miss his delightful rambling to the worker, I move to the doorway, hiding behind the wall to listen.

​

“There’s a Superman that moved on its own!” Oliver shouts to the worker.

 

“Wow,” he replies, monotone.

​

“No! First, it fell from the back of the shelf, knocked over the whole shelf almost.”

 

“Did you pick it up?”

​

“No.”

​

“Dude.”

 

“I'm not going back in there. That thing followed me too! It moves on its own, I swear!”

 

“Sounds scary.”

​

“Yes! But… it's awesome, it's like I’m in a scary movie… it's also fascinating! It's been like this all day, like there's something more out there, following me.”

​

“Hm… ghosts following you around? Sounds like a rough day.”

 

There’s a slight pause and a light laugh. I can picture his eyes crinkling perfectly.

 

“This day has been like a gift.”

​

​

​

I’m a balloon. I’m also in a tree. Some kid’s loss, but my gain, now that I get a perfect view of Oliver's walk home. As he walks down the sidewalk next to my tree, he hugs his movies and groceries to him, occasionally slipping a cracker from his pocket into his mouth.

​

Before he reaches too far out of my sight, a man and his dog approach from the direction he’s going. Immediately the short and stubby, orange and white dog takes a liking to Oliver, because how could you not, and runs right up to him, seemingly focussed on Oliver and not the food on his person.

​

“Oh, such a pretty dog! Yeah, aren't you just the cutest?” he says eagerly petting the dog. He looks up to the owner, asking, “What’s their name?”

 

“Emily,” he replies.

​

“That's my wife's name! Such a pretty name.”

 

Such a pretty name indeed. He talks to the man for a bit, animated and passionate as always, before turning around and leaving, heading home. I can’t help but look at the man with the dog as they walk in the opposite direction. The dog is ecstatic, and the man is smiling fondly. It's nice to know that he still has that effect on people. I'm reeling in that reassurance as I break free from the branches and float away.

​

​

 

Despite the day Oliver’s had, he’s got a pep in his step and a permanent toothless smile as he sets up his late-night dinner in front of the TV.

​

“You will never believe the day I had Emily! You would have loved it! I was at the grocery store… ” he rambles as he puts the finishing touches on the delicious spaghetti, making a single plate, grabbing the essential forks, placemats, and napkins, and bringing it over to the floor in front of the couch. From where I am, I have a perfect view of him carefully setting up and sitting in front of his meal, turning on the TV, and putting on The Blair Witch Project. A perfect setup for a date night in. Yet, with the exception of Oli, the room is empty.

​

One thing that truly guts me, is the fact that even two years later, he still puts out two placemats.

​

I love being anything, but nothing beats home, here on the table where I reside, in the form of a vase filled with love, next to me is a picture of a woman, who was filled with love, and still is. Where I can watch a man, who is secretly filled with anger, grief, and loneliness. Yet, a man who chooses to live gently, unapologetically. There’s a heaviness to his existence, but nevertheless, he is filled with love.

​

He sits and eats, watching The Blair Witch Project like someone’s enjoying it next to him, but nobody is there. Once in a while, he looks over to me and smiles, as if to make sure I'm watching.

​

I’m sorry I left you alone. I didn’t want to.

​

He watches enthusiastically until the very end, never losing his spark through cleaning up the food and turning off the TV. It's time for bed, but not before he walks up to me, smile still adorning his face. Then, he kisses the top of the vase, and I imagine it's akin to kissing my head.

​

“Happy anniversary,” he says shakily to me, but still smiling, eyes crinkling oh so beautifully.

​

He turns and leaves the room, but not before carefully moving the picture making sure it sits perfectly, whispering his nightly line, “Goodnight, I love you.”

​

A whisper of love still lingers in the empty room long after he’s gone.

 

It was a fun day, filled with adventure. Wonder and excitement for tomorrow calls me.

 

But for now, here I’ll stay, here I’ll love.