Grace

Every Friday, after school, I switch out my uniform
and work until late at the IGA
cash in hand, tending the register

Every Friday, at five thirty-five
a middle-aged man comes in, heads to the cold aisle
and chooses a packet of eggs; he inspects them,
twisting each one to make sure it’s not cracked,
then he brings them to the counter

“Just these, thanks.”
His smile is more friendly than polite
but his eyes are sad; wistful?
“That’s four dollars fifty.”
He gives me a five and I ring up the change,
saying: “Have a good night.”
He puts away his wallet

“You, too,” he replies,
though the twist of his cheek is more honest:
Come on, Grace, you’re here scanning groceries
on a Friday; no parties, no boyfriend, no phone;
let’s face it: we’ve flatlined, you and I,
to a low hourly wage and a DIY omelette.
When he leaves, I’ve only got four more hours
twenty minutes left on my shift

Every Friday, the man smiles and buys his eggs
(never anything more, save that one time
a bottle of half-price milk)
“Hi. Just the eggs, thanks.”
“That’s four dollars fifty.”
“Here’s five.”
“Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
And our hands brush an air kiss, not touching;
I give him his change and we go our separate ways

One night I check out the eggs he’s been buying:
extra-large, cage free, and twenty cents cheaper
(bizarrely) than the smaller size;
I find myself wondering: is he a widower?
separated? divorced? do I remind him
of a daughter he no longer sees much?
his ex-wife? a lost childhood crush?
or just that the world has a funny way
of bringing us together?

The eggs, now I think of it, cost only four forty-nine
rounded up; he forfeits a cent every time;
Best-laid plans of customers and cashiers; of kindred invisibles;
of teenage drones and grey souls; the habitually glum
On the fifth week, I’m ready; he buys eggs; I take the plunge:

Misgivings!

I hand him not fifty cents change but fifty-five;
Good one, Grace; he’ll think that you failed basic Maths;
that you’re in this for life, checkout-chick dumb;
Instead, his smile brightens, tracing the shared joke;
it runs to his eyes now: the knowledge
of logic unspoken, of history; the coins clink (echidna
on kangaroo and emu); his nod is mock formal;
he holds my gaze, eyes twinkling
“Thank you very much.”

Each Friday now, at five thirty-five, we repair;
not friends—not as such—but something just a little more
than strangers, together embracing the lines:
“Just these, thanks.”
“That’s four dollars fifty.”
“Here’s five.”
This week, instead of the usual note, he brings change,
the coins stacked nine visits high:
recognition! emus and kangaroos;
a shared warmth; the ghost mark of sorry plights and
hopes dulled; of suffering but just that touch of comfort

I count the coins by feel and we both know, this Friday,
his cue could be mine; he says:
“Have a good night, Grace.”
He takes up his eggs, better braced for life’s souffle;
suddenly my shoulders feel lighter; I let myself smile
“You, too.”

E J Delaney is a writer/poet from Brisbane, Australia. E J’s short stories have appeared in Curiouser Magazine, Litmosphere and Sonder, as well as in limited edition print collections from Air & Nothingness Press. E J’s poetry features in Riverstone, Southword, and the Irish teen and young adult literary journal Paper Lanterns. www.ejdelaney.com

*Author avatar by Emily Coelli