Fifteen Percent

The screen flipped toward me. Three options —

fifteen, twenty, twenty-five —

in large white font. The position

of her hands on the counter, patient, alive

to the pause. I was running late,

carrying something from my morning —

some irritation with no face, no weight

I could explain — the usual warning

signs of a bad day compounding.

I tapped fifteen. The machine said thank you.

She started have a great — the sounding

of it cut off. I was through

the door. Forty cents.

The gap between fifteen and twenty.

I thought about it all day, the sense

of her hands folded there, the plenty

of time she gave me to choose better.

She probably didn't notice.

That's not really the point, is it.