Every line was long. Every single one.
I picked the shortest line and got behind a couple arguing about which chips to get. She had two items on the conveyor. Then I noticed the woman at the front of the line.
She was small. Old. Wrapped in a coat so worn the cuffs were almost strings. Her back was curved, like life had been pressing down on her for years.
Bread. Milk. That was it.
“I… I’m short,” she said.
The male clerk — dark hair, tired eyes, name tag said Ethan — scanned her items and relayed the total.
She opened a tiny wallet. Coins. A few wrinkled bills. Her hand shook.
“Come on, some of us have jobs! Move it!” someone barked from behind.
“I… I’m short,” she whispered again. “I am so sorry.”
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