IF

I’m not tired. I’m not tired. I am not tired. I. Am. Not. Tired. I shake my head, blink my eyes and the woman in front of me comes into focus. White woman, brunette, hair pulled back into a ponytail, the tattoo on her forearm says “serenity,” her name tag has a smudge on it obscuring her name. The clock just behind her head reads 2:43 AM. She looks like her name would be Jennifer. If I could choose her name, her name would be Jennifer.   

“Cash or credit?” She says. I rub my eyes before stuffing my hands into my pockets. I jostle the change around and smooth my fingertips across my leather wallet. A gallon of off-brand bleach, a twix bar, and three green sponges decorate the counter. 

“I’m sorry, how much does it cost?” I ask. 

“12.94”

“Cash.”

I pull 13 dollars out of my pockets and jam into the cashier’s hands. 

“Are you okay?” She wonders. I look behind me, unsure if she was speaking to me. 

PROBABLY

She probably doesn’t know. I don’t want to hurt the cashier that should be named Jennifer. She’s not all that pretty, can’t be all that bright, and not all that sweet. But Jennifer seems nice enough and stupid enough to stay alive. 

“Me?” 

“Yes. You. You have cuts and bandages all over your hands. Just making sure you don’t need any medical attention,” The cashier asserts.  I look down at my hands, my eyesight getting a little fuzzy. Red spills from lacerations all over my palms, stretching down to my fingertips. The gauze wrapped around my left hand smells of ammonia. I think she can smell my guilt even through the pungent ammonia. I marvel at my hands for a moment, feigning a lie. I nod at the cashier.

“Yes. I am sorry. I had an accident at work,” I maintain. The cashier forces a clumsy grin. She opens the cash register and begins to fish out my change. I shake my head. “No need.”

 MAYBE

I corral the items off the counter and put the twix in my mouth. I stagger towards the exit, a slight limp in my step. 

“Sir, do you need a bag?” She says, offering one forward. 

“No thank you.” I say, continuing to hobble towards the door. I look down at my feet. I can’t believe I ruined my Motorsport 4’s.  They’re splattered with blood and stained with an undeniable scent. I look over at the cashier, she avoids eye contact, fiddling with her useless name tag. Maybe she knows. I’m too tired for this. 

In my perfect world, she wouldn’t know. Her name would be Jennifer and she wouldn’t have to work the graveyard shift at a shitty convenience store. She would be pretty and smart and  sweet and work somewhere nice. Maybe this unremarkable cashier has to die for Jennifer to live. I stop at the doorway for a few moments, before dropping the bleach to the floor and twisting the lock shut. 

🦋

published May 27, 2022