roasted mozzerella

while walking at night on alberta, we imagine what we might do tonight. do you drink, she says, and says, i don't, and i say i like wine, and then we find ourselves paused under a sign of a closed wine merchant. later, i remember the other day in whole foods. a clank stops the crowd, an event i, while sampling what i think was called roasted mozzerella, but is actually just some herbed pasta, witness right in front of me: a young woman, serene and bright, replaces a bottle of wine from the tile floor. that's a ton of good luck right there, when you drop a wine bottle and it doesn't break, the clerk says. and i leave the store without buying anything.