literature

supermarket days.

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Literature Text

you imprint on them sometimes. the customers. you don't ever mean for it to happen (it's certainly not mentioned in any policy handbooks, for sure), but somehow, it does.

sometimes, it's their mistakes that catch you. maybe they come through your line twice, after they forget something. they duck their heads and look up at you sheepishly through shy bangs, wanting to see if you remember. maybe they forget their wallets and dash out to the car, narrowly missing getting run over in the process. no matter what, there's a smile. always, always they return, cheeks rosy from the jog, ears pink from something else. it's a little catching; after they leave, you cup your ears—they're warm.

once, it was in a customer's hair. soft and curling in every shade of chocolate, loosely spiraling over the most beautiful pair of shoulders you'd ever seen, drooped like a seagull preparing flight, thinning out from the blades like half-turned commas. that bobbing head pauses, then disappears down aisle 7 and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. you wait but your samson never reappears and you spend a chain of restless nights trying to attach a face to those melancholy brown waves.

another time, another day, you are in between two gallons of greenwise milk and a tray of cageless eggs when you make the mistake of looking up. with so many tight black curls in the way, you almost miss those heavy eyes, eyes holding so much sadness in them you could wring it out like a towel. you feel like you could reach and reach without touching anything and later, you say that's why you were afraid to do so. instead, the money drops to the floor and when a curved hand brushes corkscrew bangs away to pick them up, you're so frozen you forget to print the receipt and he leaves before you even think of doing so.

there are senses besides your sight to be tried. one brushes your neck on accident, reaching for a case of batteries, and as if that isn't enough to start your eyes stinging, the bills in the crumpled stack he hands you smell like desperation and departures.

you learn to judge the weight of imprint by the feeling in your heart—a weird sort of awful, unnatural blur, thudding sideways of all directions. the worse the tug, the less you sleep.

sometimes they're already taken. then, in your mind, you coolly assess the lithe females on their arms (on in one case, a cheeky male) and consider the nearby possibilities. when limited to your counter, it's usually only either death by cleaning agents or the business end of a name tag pin; with the entire store's potential, there's much more creativity at hand, especially with the meat department involved.

there are some that come every week. these you can afford to miss the first few times. eventually, one will slip you a check and the time it takes to process the damn thing is balanced by the knowledge you gain from the top little line in bold. by the fourth or fifth week, you're ready to try out a name. god knows you've practiced it. you remember the hours in front of a mirror and squeeze the bundle in your hands a little too tight and it protests sharply, a soft "oh" escaping from your lips when you realize what you're holding: roses.

it's loud enough for him to hear but too much for him to understand. "i'm asking her tonight," he murmurs shyly.

you nod, not trusting yourself to speak and it's like a lead spike in your heart, but what can you do? you twist the roses into a bag with incredibly bad grace and a velvety petaled head bend and gives.

your manager asks to see you one day. you wonder out loud if it's about all the cartons you've dropped, you're sorry, really, things just seem to keep slipping recently. he laughs and not for the first time, you're reminded of how crooked and foxy his smile makes him look. you glance over his shoulder at the frame hanging above the desk. three fair-haired girls with the same teasing expression chide you. he could be your father, you remind yourself.

it's not the broken eggs, he's saying, pointing at a master schedule on the table. all the days where you've requested extra shifts are highlighted and circled.

"take the week off," he tells you, not unkindly. "you're still young, young enough for adventure. young enough to not need work, yet." he is looking at you strangely and you want to argue but there is something paternal and worried in his eyes. he takes a pencil and firmly draws lines through the page. "i hate to see you dating your register."

you have to turn, shaking, so he doesn't see the rage in your face.
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xxagenta's avatar
The way you write totally grabs a hold of my heart and doesn't let go. You have some beautiful work.