Katherine Carns

Corner Store by Katherine Carns The harsh fluorescent lights flicker above my head casting brief shadows upon the shiny plastic bags perfectly lined side by side like soldiers in formation in front of me. I can’t help but shiver slightly, the cold seeping in through the giant windows at my back, half-stained yellow from years of residue as coworker after coworker retreats outside for their smoke break. A gentle hum from the frozen section adds a nice chorus to the rattle of coins as I turn them over in my hand, contemplating what I feel like eating tonight. I could go with my usual salt-and-vinegar flavor, but for some reason I’m not sure I’m up for the grimace that accompanies a bite into one of the over-flavored chips. Perhaps I should settle for a classic like the cheddar or maybe even the lightly salted? No, that’s far too bland and would hardly feel satisfying. I peek around the front line of bags and barely catch a glimpse of a familiar mucus green hiding behind the burnt orange and various blues. Without hesitation and with years of practice I swipe the bag out from behind the line and feel my skin stretch into a goofy smile. I haven’t seen this one in a while! I turn, looking the bag over from front to back, rereading the words written on the front to make sure I’m not mistaken. “Dill Pickle.” Oh, how my mother hated when I would buy this flavor. She always claimed it gave me horrible breath and so in response, I would always sneak up and grace her with a hot puff of air that reeked of pickle. Remembering the old days, I can’t help but give a throaty chuckle to myself. I tuck the bag into the pocket of my favorite hoody, once representative of my old sorority, but now the letters have faded so much you might question if it even said anything at all. My sneakers squeak against the grimy linoleum floors leaving behind a black streak indistinguishable from all of the rest. Someone else might take one look into this mess of a corner store and assume the worst, but not me. Looking around at the familiar aisles filled with junk food and caffeine galore brings me a sort of comfort that is hard to come by nowadays. Here I don’t have to dress up or look nice like I do for my nine-to-five. Here I can arrive in my old, worn-out hoody and sneakers that leave streak marks behind and no one will give me a second glance. I can blend in and become a regular who merely stops by for her daily dose of carbs. Sure, this particular corner store may no longer be just down the street from my house and I may or may not have to travel a solid fifteen minutes by train to get here, but I wouldn’t trade it for any high-priced, fancy convenience store you might find in my current neighborhood. The cashier had been watching her closely from behind the scratched plastic glass that separated him from the customers. It may have been his first day on the job, but he could tell that she wasn’t a typical customer. Something about her comfortable hoodie and her sneakers with one sole starting to fall of in the back just didn’t match her gaze. The sharp gaze that studied each bag of chip was one you would normally see from a top tier appraiser down on fifth street. You definitely wouldn’t expect to find someone like her, with her silky hair pulled into a too-perfect bun, in this part of town. When she first entered the shop, he was taken aback slightly and thought he might have to direct her somewhere, but she knew exactly where to go and made a beeline to the first isle without even giving him a second look. His fingers drum softly on the splintered counter as he waits for her to finish reliving the scene that was playing out in her head. Her unfocused eyes and the small smile that plays on her lips tells him at least that much. As he continues staring, she can feel his gaze on her and finally pulls herself out of her head. With a frustrated grunt, she turns sharply on her heel and struts over to the counter, the cashier quickly halting his fingers and straightening up, only somewhat afraid of her. Silently he rings up her single bag of chips, but before he can utter a word about her total, she drops the pile of coins onto the wood and reaches forward to grab her snack. The coins rattle on the table once, twice, three times as they try and make their escape onto the linoleum. Before they can fall to the floor, the cashier sharply slams his hand down in an attempt to grab them, but instead is rewarded with a loud crunch as he feels the crinkle of aluminum under his palm. He grimaces and her hand halts, hovering just inches from the bag and she can’t believe what he has just done. Quickly he withdraws his hand and, terrified of her response, mutters an apology as quickly as he can. He believes he is safe until he sees her look up. That was when he realizes he has made a huge mistake. She is furious. That was the only dill pickle bag, and she can feel herself begin to tremble with a silent rage. Her mouth opens slightly, and he instinctively flinches away from her unspoken words, darting his hand underneath the counter and pulling out a smaller, but familiar, mucus green bag. “Would you like mine instead?”