The cashier’s hands tremble as she rings up
my groceries. I’m sure she’s thinking I’m an i***t, out at a time
like this, in the salt and the riots and whatnot, just for a frozen
pizza and some cans of soda. I want to tell her I’m not that bad,
really. I want to tell her not to worry, but I can’t find the
words. If worrying is what’s going to get her through this, then
let her worry.
I also don’t tell her about the cute guy in
aisle five with the pistol down his pants. We just won’t go
there.
I see him from the corner of my eye as she
bags my things. He stands at the end of the line with his arms full
of saltines and beer and chips, and he keeps looking around like
he’s got something to hide. Yeah, I think, smiling as the
cashier hands me first one large paper bag, then the ne
