The heat is sweltering. It’s a hot evening in late June, and the air conditioning decides to go out in the store. On my shift. I grimace as a trickle of sweat goes down my neck before my t-shirt absorbs it. There’s a fan positioned above me, but with the doors closed, only a warm breeze blows my way. There’s only one customer in the far back of the store, so I place my headphones in, resuming my true crime podcast. Something is eerie about listening to horrible things people have done while practically alone.

I sway back and forth on my feet, trying to chase the discomfort of standing for too long. I’m close to pulling the step stool over and sitting on it when the lingering shopper comes to my register.

“Hello, ma’am. Find everything okay?” I ask robotically, repeating the script I’ve said hundreds of times. 

“Mhm.” She mumbles, placing her items on the counter. Taking the cue, I keep silent as I ring up the stuff. An immediate frown crosses her face as I reveal the total and bag her items.

“That’s not correct.” 

I halt all movements and pause my podcast to focus.

“What do you mean?” I’m unsure what she’s talking about, but I also don’t want to pick a fight. Better play dumb. 

“The laundry detergent said it was $10.99 on the shelf, but it rang up as $12.59.” Glancing at the register, I check the price of the soap. It rang up at $12.59. Hating what comes next, I take a shaky breath. 

“Would you mind showing me where you got it from?” Annoyance seeps from the woman, but she obliges by pointing to the location. I slowly walk to the designation because I need some time to prepare myself. Once I am at the section, I check the barcode and see that she accidentally read the tag of the detergent above this one for the top-shelf products. 

Instant relief overwhelms me, knowing I have a defendable argument to appease the customer. I snap photos of the prices with my phone and return to my register. 

“Yes, it seems you read the tag for the product one shelf higher than this one. See?” I produce the pictures, but she doesn’t even spare them a glance. 

“I’m not paying $13 for soap.”

“Okay. Would you like to delete the item?” That’s an easy fix.

“No, I want it, but I’m not spending that much.” She says and emphasizes while tapping a nail on the table top. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t change the prices.” Please accept this answer. Please accept this-

“Then I’m not buying anything. Have fun putting all my shit back.” With this, she slams the cart into a nearby magazine rack causing it to topple over. Magazines spill onto the floor, their glossy covers now tainted with dust. 

I stare at the cart and the magazines for a brief time. My fingers tremble, and I feel nauseous. Pivoting, I grab the keys to the bathroom and unlock the door. Inside, I kneel down, careful not to touch one centimeter of skin to the germ– filled area. 

After a minute of shaking, I begin to feel safe. Finally, tears escape my eyes, and relief encompasses me.