Red Dot

The barcode won't scan.

I press it harder against the light.

Nothing.

Everyone's waiting. Friday night, late,

just me and my single item and this red dot

that keeps trying and missing.

The laser hunts the code like it's looking for something

that might not be there anymore. The dot moves

left, right, left again. Almost. Almost.

An exhausted woman in a vest comes over,

types the number in by hand. Her fingers

know the rhythm. Mine don't.

I want to apologize for the code.

I want to apologize for being the person who couldn't

make the machine work, the small thing that broke

in a public place with witnesses.

She walks away. The register beeps acceptance.

I have my receipt now, proof of purchase,

proof that eventually the system found a way

to let me belong here, to let me pay, to let me leave.

But I'm still thinking about her hand

on the keypad, the way she didn't sigh,

the way she just fixed it

because that's what she does

with all the things that won't cooperate.

I want to know if she forgave me.

I want to know if she even noticed I was sorry.