Zombie al Carrefour paints the picture of a sleepless wanderer who, after a hazy mix of bitter liqueurs and pills “that start with X,” hides from guilt-ridden thoughts by roaming the fluorescent aisles of a late-night supermarket. Surrounded by elderly shoppers, small-time dealers, and construction workers on break, the narrator keeps her eyes low and her headphones loud, craving a slice of something normal—even if that “normal” is just buying milk at 5 a.m. The Carrefour becomes a safe limbo where she can dodge the weight of home, memories, and the pressure to party like everyone else her age.
Under the neon lights she rehearses life skills that feel scarier than any zombie: learning to leave or be left, forgiving everything, drying up heartache “with a friend as good as bread and ham.” Grocery shopping surfaces bittersweet nostalgia for a relationship that once made the chore feel shared and meaningful, yet the act also signals a first step toward self-care. By the time she pays and steps outside, dawn breaks—a quiet promise that even the most disoriented night can end in a fresh start.