#89
At the self check out at Target, Aimee waits for her lunch break. Here, in the front, it’s bag after bag of stuff, things, junk, while being assaulted by the smells coming from the in-store Starbucks.
Aimee: can I see your ID?
Customer: here.
She didn’t know that ID’s were required to buy drain opener. That’s a new one. She’s been here, for what, about a year and there are still things that surprise her. Just last week, someone tried to steal a pair of sunglasses by wearing them out.
At least here in the front she can see outside. She knows if it’s raining, if it’s sunny, if there are clouds. It helps the day pass in a way that makes sense. Birds sometimes fly into the windows.
Later, in the break room, she pulls out a Cliff bar, a banana and fills up her travel mug with coffee, opens her book and puts in her headphones to make sure no one bothers her. Days pass like this. Sometimes slow. Usually in a weird mix of feeling ok with herself and also, not. Usually she thinks there must be more than this, but then other days thinks that this is just fine with her. She doesn’t take her work home with her. No one bothers her when she’s off. Her pay is fine. It’s fine, she says. She gets by. Her healthcare is fine. It’s all fine, all of it. It’s just fine.