Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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I'm not giving up. But Tuesdays have an automatic strike against me.
"I don't think he's coming, Am," says Chris from behind his register to my left. The clock on the wall above the deserted customer service station reads nine-fifty-nine as I stand staring at the door.
At least this string of failures is not my fault. They're on Mr. Sweatpants, who always checks out at my register but refuses to talk to me no matter what I try. I should've given up on him weeks ago, but then I might as well tattoo looser on my forehead. He owes me a win, even if he doesn't know it. I need a win.
"It's time to lock the doo-" Chris stops mid-sentence.
Woosh. The automatic sliding glass doors part, blasting me with more heat, and in comes the guy I've been waiting for, wearing the only clothes I've ever seen him in-black sneakers, sweats, a long sleeve black hoodie, with its hood over an equally black baseball cap. The gust of muggy July Chicago air follows him in and lingers. The gods of broken air conditioners ignore my pleas. A trickle of sweat runs down my neck, chest, and right into my already sticky bra.
Each week he comes in minutes before we lock the doors. He strolls with his small cart around the bins with bulk loose grains where he weighs quinoa or buckwheat with the precision of a chemist. He takes his sweet time to consult his phone, ignoring the announcement that the store is closing, gathers the items from the rest of the vacant store, and makes a bee-line to my register. Where he does not talk to me.
Two things are at stake today. Yes, if I get him to talk, I'll win my first Tuesday cashiers vs. customers game. Not cleaning the bathrooms at the end of today's shift would be a Godsend, but there's more. I need a good luck sign if I'm ever going to send out the post-graduate school applications I've been filling out this week instead of working on my thesis. If Mr. Sweatpants ignores me, which he will, so be it. I'll plug up my nose, get a bigger scoop and start shoveling shit at a real job instead of spending the next five years of my life in academia.
There's usually an element of luck in our clandestine game because some people love to hear themselves talk, describing how their day has been, or complaining about the office workload or little Charlie's ear infection while I have to pretend to care. Others ignore my 'How's your evening going' and stay silent, talk on their phones, or treat me like a kiosk. But not Mr. Sweatpants. He comes with a preset yes, no, and I don't know answers, which, according to the rules, do not count in the tally. Not today. Not if I play my cards right.
Game. Set. Match.
I drag myself away from the meek whirl of the fan moving hot air from one side of the register to the other and embark on our weekly song and dance. Me-rolling my lips between my teeth to hold in any snarky comments because his cart continues to look like a sample of the produce section: sweet potatoes, broccoli, green beans, lemons. No alcohol. And never my daily staples of caffeine or candy. Him-standing on the other side, emitting waves of musky funk and never meeting my eye. I continue to scan the groceries: apples, salmon, a bag of coffee.
