Chapter 8 - THE CASHIER
About a year after the supermarket incident, I returned to the same store.
Not intentionally.
My usual market was closed for renovations.
I was halfway through produce when someone said:
“Mrs. Ellis?”
Patricia Gomez.
The cashier.
She recognized me.
I almost wished she hadn’t.
Then she smiled.
“How are you?”
“Better.”
Her eyes softened.
“I wondered.”
That surprised me.
“You remembered?”
“Your daughter was loud.”
Fair.
Then:
“I remember you saying no.”
I laughed.
“So do I.”
Patricia told me something strange.
After I left that day, Stephanie stood at the register for nearly fifteen minutes.
No cards.
No cash.
Three carts.
Eventually, store employees had to return almost everything to the shelves.
Stephanie bought only a small selection using a mobile-payment app Clinton sent.
Total:
$143.
The dinner still happened.
Just without imported cheese, four bottles of wine, and enough meat to feed a football team.
I smiled.
“So nobody died?”
Patricia laughed.
“Not that afternoon.”
That was the ridiculous part.
The catastrophe Stephanie made me fear?
A less impressive dinner.
For that, I had almost sacrificed medication money.
How many times had I spent hundreds preventing someone else from experiencing minor embarrassment?
Too many.
I bought my groceries.
Total:
$76.18.
Including chamomile tea.
I paid.
Because I chose to.
As I left, Patricia said:
“I’m glad you kept walking.”
May you like
So was I.
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