I was flustered at the register —

I was flustered at the register —

couldn't find the card, went through

every pocket twice, the line behind me,

and I said something. Not untrue,

not cruel exactly, but dismissive —

the kind of thing you say to cap

the moment with a bit of distance.

Her hand stopped over the scanner. A gap

before she kept going.

A second. Her posture shifted — some

interior closing — and she scanned

the next item. Done.

I found the card. I paid. I left.

Got to the car and sat.

I know what it was. I don't

need to make more of it than that.

I drove home fine.

But I keep coming back to her hand —

that pause over the scanner, the small

interior shift. I understand

what it was. The fluorescent light.

The receipt printing out. The week

I'd been having. None of that

is the point. Her hand. The streak

of the receipt. The way her posture

changed by a degree.

I said something to fill the space.

She closed something I couldn't see.