Unearned

I was rude to her—not cruel, just done.

Visibly depleted. The line was long.

She said no worries. Have a good one.

I stood there after, briefly, wrong

about what I deserved back.

Her hands already on the next order.

I picked up my bag. The automatic track

of the exit. The glass. The border

between the store and the cold outside.

I sat in my car and tried to find

the name for what she'd given—aside

from mercy, which feels too grand a kind

of word for a grocery checkout.

But I've been home for two hours now

and I don't have a better one. The doubt

that I deserved it. The way, somehow,

she just—didn't need me to.