What do you think, how do you feel? For example, I think this sunset is very well-attended. The crowd is our age, 18 or 42, and equipped with phone cameras. Unlike me, their devices are unmeant for language. That’s because, I feel, you say, there’s no more writing to be done about sunsets.

This story is an argument, then. I mean the kind you can advance. About whether we fell in love at a Target, there’s no question, and no proof. The toothpaste we didn’t buy lost its shape elsewhere, curling inward in time. We circled the perimeter, moving sometimes toward the center, but, we learned, we felt, the center was everyplace. In one aisle, for example, frozen berries stilled at their peak, waiting on vernal return, which could occur but may not on your countertop. Story-writers like the word formica. I try to resist, and we tried not to rush at the center; we kept our voices casual when we asked about the fire alarm, which was, an employee assured us, an ongoing event.

The sunset, meanwhile, is happening! It’s golden and reddish, like so many allusions, like so much else, too. The crowd lifts their devices, and you look at the crowd, having read in an anthology that you should look at who’s looking.

The postmodern, when it’s furniture, is antiques dipped in monochrome lacquer. A decorative vase is all white now, or pink. It shines and is resurgent; its ridges, once specific, are thicker now and dulled. Hey: somebody used an egg to paint that. With an egg they told a story. This was some time ago. Now it’s whited out, now it’s vintage again, an item you may place on your countertop. All that’s felt is made general. All that’s general, made again. All that’s now is just from, and all that’s from is from still.

Let’s return, then, to the sunset. It is well-attended, golden, reddish, and happening. You don’t stare straight at my notebook, but you can see that the argument won’t advance. Is the argument, like love inside time and the impression a center does try to create, too general? How do you feel?

For example, the general store, though spectacular, has a central location and new-old designs. It is a destination for families in the neighborhood, and us. All that was frozen at its peak stayed that way, behind ice trays. Springward or elsewhere, I was eager to advance. Formica. There’s no more writing to be done about love, you said. Ditto monogamy, ditto passion, which is ordinary. Ditto beauty, ditto aging, ditto change, ditto death. You yawned then in the berry aisle. Art itself is what’s possible. Words for words’ sake. We needed a vacation, I said, to touch any particular ground, to know for sure our time there would end in four days, then three.

And now: look at who’s looking. 18 or 42-year-olds dressed in black pants and black crop-tops, or white pants and white crop-tops, or pink pants and pink crop-tops. With some reluctance I’ll admit that I’m dressed in black pants and a black crop-top, lacquered up, sitting still like furniture, failing to write about this sunset.

And here’s what else: Where we’re waiting is on touchable ground! Touchable ground, spectaclepod. The sunset is happening at Comet Point; Comet Point is the name of this ground; the sky is reddening here.

Touristplant. Reddening, red, enough unlike the berry aisle. It’s notspring, but there’s a particular man in this crowd. A particular man, in black pants and a black crop top, telling us a particular story: He lived here in the 80s; back then, for a second or less—for a marked-down second—the sunset he saw here was green. With an egg, he repeats: The sunset was green, and it might still be too, in a moment.

Madeleine Crumis a writer, editor, and teacher living in New York by way of Texas and the Gulf Coast. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Baffler, BOMB, Brooklyn Rail, Joyland, The Los Angeles Review of Books, Triangle House, Vice, Vulture, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. She teaches writing at Brooklyn College, where she studied fiction.