My hands are still cold

My hands are still cold.

I've been outside for five minutes

and my hands are still cold

from the freezer section,

from breaking down boxes,

from eight hours of keeping things frozen.

The store lights are still on in the lot.

Someone's inside, locking up,

doing the final count,

and I'm here with the car doors open,

still in my work shirt,

the one that smells like industrial cold

and cardboard dust.

My phone buzzes.

I know before I read it

what it's going to say.

Some people have intuition about love.

I have intuition about loss.

It's the same thing, basically.

The message is short.

Efficient.

Like they've been planning this

for longer than I thought.

I sit there.

The fluorescent lights keep buzzing.

My hands keep being cold.

The shirt keeps smelling

like a place I'm already leaving.

I think about going back in,

clocking back in,

finding something else to do

with my hands.

But I'm already off the clock.

I'm already done.

I'm just sitting here in the parking lot,

reading the message again,

like it might say something different,

like the text might change

if I read it enough times,

like my hands might warm up

if I hold the phone tight enough.

They don't.

It doesn't.

The store is closing.

The lights will go off soon.

I should go home.

But I'm still wearing this shirt.

I still smell like freezer and cardboard.

I'm still cold.

I'm going to sit here a little longer,

pretending that if I don't move,

nothing else has to change.