He turned on her like he’d been waiting. “Because I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired of feeling like if I don’t say it out loud, nobody will. Everybody’s always clapping for generosity and nobody’s asking who pays. Nobody’s asking why it’s always on regular people.”
That last part landed.
Because he wasn’t wrong about that.
Not entirely.
I looked at the shelf again.
Then at the notebook.
Then at the phones.
And I realized we weren’t standing at a table of food.
We were standing at a table of everything people argue about when they’re too scared to admit the truth:
That the line between “fine” and “not fine” is thinner than a receipt.
That one illness, one layoff, one dead car battery can turn you into that person in front of the cashier.
That most of us aren’t judging strangers.
We’re judging the version of ourselves we’re terrified to become.
I put the note in my pocket.
I grabbed my meds.
I tried to leave.
But as I passed the automatic doors, the manager stopped me.
He was a middle-aged guy with tired eyes and a name tag that said DAN like that was supposed to make him less human.
“Sir,” he said, voice tight, “can I talk to you for a second?”
I stood there with the exit breeze on my face.