She wants the fifty cents

She wants the fifty cents.

She’s earned it, she says,

waving a scrap of glossy paper

that expired on a Tuesday I don't remember.

The cashier looks at the ceiling

and lets out a breath that smells of coffee

and a long-dead patience.

Then the machine hits the high note—

the one that says the card is a liar.

I put the black rubber divider down

between my loaf of store-brand white

and her glass bottle of grass-fed hope.

We both pretend the floor is very interesting,

while the line behind us grows teeth.