It has been a hard year on a fixed income. Everything costs more than it used to, and my little pension does not stretch the way it once did. That afternoon I was at the grocery store with a small basket — bread, milk, a few tins — and when the total came up, I realized I was going to be short.
So I did the thing I dread. I stood at the register and counted out coins from the bottom of my purse, one by one, my face hot, painfully aware of the line of people building up behind me. The young cashier, a girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, waited patiently. She didn’t sigh. She didn’t roll her eyes. She just watched me quietly with a look I couldn’t quite read.
I came up a little short in the end and had to put the tin of soup back. She rang the rest through, bagged it, and wished me a good evening with a smile that seemed to mean something more than the usual. I thanked her and shuffled out to the bus, embarrassed and tired.
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