I close my eyes and I can see, the numbers march incessantly

1 avocado, 35,000
1 carton of milk, 37,500
1 package of cheese slices 39,900
1 bag of tomatoes, 62,500

I scanned the receipt, checking and rechecking the prices to make sure we were not paying more than we should for the paltry items sitting in the grocery cart. The cheapest fruit, other than oranges, was 52,000 for a kilo so we'd put 4 round-top peaches and 4 hard nectarines into a plastic bag and headed to the scales to weigh and price them. We can eat the apples we still have in the fridge, my husband said sadly. 

But what happens when we finish eating the stores of food we have? I wondered. Two years ago, we'd started the dance of stocking up. We'd bought up enough rice, pasta, and oil to last us several months. Last summer we'd calculated how much we'd need of all the dry staples and bought what we would need for 6 months. We were still using the oil but once we'd run out of the other staples, we had started to buy only what we needed for the next week or two. Now, everything was so expensive it made no sense to stock up anymore. Our local currency was just enough, if we were careful, to get us through the month with the basics. There were few luxuries. I calculated and recalculated item prices constantly, my longsuffering husband knowing by now that if I had to buy tissues, I would check whether the 200 pieces or the 300 pieces were cheaper and we were not going anywhere until I had satisfied myself that we were buying the most economical packet of tissues. 

How much is this suitcase in dollars? my husband asked, as he pulled one off the shelf to examine its make and quality. I pulled out my every ready smartphone and opened up the calculator app, only to stare at it without understanding. I don't know, I don't know how much the dollar is right now and I really don't care I said, as I closed my phone and headed to the personal hygiene section. 

A few minutes later, I was calculating tins of chickpeas to see which ones were cheaper when checking the drained weight. My husband spotted a good deal, but I remembered throwing out several of those tins when we'd last bought them because they were not preserved well. I reached for the next cheapest option. 

By the time we'd reached the bread section, my patience had run out. I'd been irritated from the moment I'd walked into the mall, as my husband, trying to cheer me up, had suggested we walk around the mall. There were too many people, most of them not wearing masks and breathing everywhere, and they were making too much noise. I stared straight ahead as we walked, wishing the time to pass quickly so we could get to the store and make our purchases. I hated the mask; it was too tight and in the summer heat it made it harder to breathe on top of making my face all sweaty. 

The cashier rang up our purchases agonizingly slowly, one by one. I'd never seen a slower cashier but I understood why the young man was not moving any faster. He, like me, had given up on life. He'd lost hope and was now simply existing. Why bother to be quick? It wouldn't change anything and it was probably taking all his energy just to do the basics. I wanted to say something encouraging but even I had run out of the will to perform. 

We went to the next grocery store. This one was quieter and cooler but the sticker shock still ran deep. I found my favourite granola bars on sale and put 10 of them in the basket. Some small consolation for the impossible task we were having to face. Again, no bread. 

On the way home, we spotted a bakery. Let's try there and see if they have bread, I suggested. My husband parked in front of a little business that was closed and we crossed the not-so-busy two-way street. Inside, we found bags of bread so fresh, the steam had just escaped the pillowy white loaves. The bakery had their own ovens and was still pumping out loaves in preparation for the next morning. We picked up 2 bags and headed to the counter where I noticed another man buying 3 bags. At least there was no limit on bread today. 

Our last stop was at a minimart where I'd picked out two ice cream sandwiches from the ice chest. Half vanilla and half chocolate sandwiched between the perfect chocolate crust, the sweet treat cheered us up as we drove the last few minutes home. 

We made it, I sighed inwardly as we pulled into the driveway, the neighbors' dog barking incessantly at our arrival. We made it for another week. I dreaded the thought of repeating it all over again a week later but knew that for now, at least, we had what we needed and wouldn't have to brave traffic again for any missing items. We would have boiled fava beans for a treat and I would make freshly squeezed orange juice from the leftover oranges in the fridge. 

But how much longer can this go on for? I wondered. How much longer can I manage this? 

I'm tired.