The Years

by Annie Ernaux

As she waits at the hypermarket check-out, she occasionally thinks of all the times she’s stood in line with a cart heaped with food. She sees the vague silhouettes of women, alone or with children circling their cart. They are faceless, distinguished only by hairstyle – a low chig- non, hair cut short, in a bob, or loose and medium-long – and clothing – the seventies maxi-coat, the black midi- coat from the eighties. She sees them as images of herself, taken apart and separated like matryochka dolls. She pictures herself here in ten or fifteen years with a cart filled with sweets and toys for grandchildren not yet born. But she sees that woman as improbable, just as the girl of twenty-five saw the woman of forty, whom she has since become and already ceased to be.