little thought.
You got any change?
No, sorry.
Oh, you're sorry, you're fucking sorry. Aren't I sorry?
Yeah, you're a real sorry son of a bitch, you fucking asshole.
1
The clerk huffs out a sigh when I walk in with the guy. His eyes dart over my shoulder and fly back to my face. His lips press into a line. He looks down at his hands on the counter top.
Here, I say, and turn around to give the guy the ten dollars. Take your time, I have nowhere to be.
The guy picks out microwave popcorn, Gatorade, a barbecue sandwich, a candy bar. He explains every choice as he puts them on the counter. They got a microwave at the shelter, this is real filling, I like the red kind. The clerk only looks at me, standing in line behind the guy. His eyes are accusing.
Who am I hurting? I want to say. I click my teeth together instead, safe behind my lips. I slide my chips across the counter, wave away the guy when he tries to give me the change.
The clerk doesn't say anything, even when the guy has left. Hope you have a good one, I say, and back out of the store.
Three blocks later I think some pig died for that sandwich, and bark out a laugh, startling a woman on her way home. That's who you're hurting, you sorry bitch.
2
The guy never talks to me. He talks to the guys, I notice, just a bare breath of a question when they come out of the 7-Eleven. He keeps his hands dug into his jeans pockets.
"You want a coffee?" I say, after I've already walked past him. His eyebrows shoot up.
"Oh, yeah, sure, could always use a cup."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Yeah, yeah. Thank you."
The university kids are all drunk, pouring through the doors to get nachos and slurpees and cigarettes, banging into things and slurring fuck, whoops. The clerks know me, the sober hollow-eyed girl who keeps strange, strange hours, and one of them flirts with me out of habit while I pour the coffee, the cream. I smile back, dump in the sugar, stir. "It sure is cold, sure is."
My stomach feels tight, like the time I slipped a pack of gum in my pocket and walked out without paying. I think about telling the boy in front of me that I like his earrings, but I shouldn't draw attention to myself, I think. I smile at the clerk. I pay.
"Two creams, three sugars," I say. My voice is soft and smooth; the voice I used as a secretary, the voice of the nice white lady. I hand him his cup. He carefully does not touch my hand. "Do you want more?" I hold out two tiny cups of cream and two packets of sugar.
"Nah, I'm good, I'm good," he says, his eyes still on my face. "Thank you. Thanks."
"All right," I say, "try to keep warm." We both laugh at the same time. I walk away.
I look back a block later and see him curved around the cup, holding it carefully, gently. I jerk my eyes back in front of me. My cheeks burn, in spite of the cold.