Four Cents Short
Juniper ColeThe last customer of the night comes in at 8:58,coat still dusted with cold he carries like news he hasn't told anyone yet,one carton of eggs held against his chest like something that might crack if he let it hang at his side.
I count his payment in dimes from a jar that used to hold jam,the label gone soft and peeling at one corner, a word I can't finish reading.Four cents short. He pats a pocket that isn't there, laughs at himself instead of at me.
I key in the discount my manager says is only for damaged cartons,let the register believe something is broken when nothing is,and the four cents disappear into a lie small enough to fit in my palm.
He doesn't ask why. At the door he turns, sets two eggs on the counter,warm from riding against his ribs the whole walk here, says, for tomorrow,like he noticed before I did that I hadn't eaten since noon.
I lock the door on a store that still smells like bleach,flip the sign, carry two eggs home inside my coatthe exact way he carried his, pressed close, careful, counted.