It had been years since I’d last seen Greg—high school, I think. Back then, he was already becoming slightly spherical, orbiting around the vending machines. 

Naturally, we bumped into each other at the supermarket. Of all places it made the most sense as the gravitational field of Greg. He looked me up and down, squinting as if trying to measure the distance between the man I was and the one he remembered. And in return, I did the same.

“Man, you look great,” he said eventually. “Tell me your secret. I should drop a few myself.”

I shrugged, offering a half-smile. “Well, you can always try keeping your shopping to the edges of the supermarket. You know, avoid going in the aisles as much as you can.”

The logic was simple: the perimeter of the store was where the least processed food was— the fresh fruit and vegetables, the meats, the cheese, the frozen fish, all were lining the wall. 

Greg nodded back at me with the sincerity and determination of a man about to change everything. We elbow-bumped, and I slipped out, leaving him at the gates of his rebirth.

About three months later, I saw him again. We were in the same supermarket, but now he was the supermarket: soft, rounded, carrying a faint whiff of despair.

“It’s not working, man,” he told me, panting slightly. “But I gave it a good shot—a really good one!”

“Were you shopping the edges?” I asked.

 “Yeah!” He proudly nodded back at me.

I snuck a peak at his shopping cart to see two frozen pizzas and a Tom & Jerry’s tub of ice cream. Sigh. 

In Greg’s defense, he did shop the edges. He’d eaten nothing but frozen pizza and ice cream for the past three months.

“Guess it doesn’t all work for everybody the same, does it?” He shrugged. ”Alrighty then, I better get going. Nice seeing ya!”

Greg rolled himself away, together with his shopping, the cart squeaking under his touch and the weight of his good intentions.