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But not at me.
At the man she’s currently checking out, the man just in front of me. The man who reacts after a brief moment, jerking as though jarred from his thoughts and reaching into his pocket.
He’s wearing a pair of jeans stained with so much dirt that I pity his washing machine, and his tee isn’t much better, filthy and sweat-covered, plastered against a broad, well-muscled chest.
His forearms and hands are stained with something dark.
Clearly coming from some sort of hard, physical work, and on a day like today, summer clinging to the edges of a sunny spring afternoon, I envy him.
Not that I don’t love my job—I’m a nanny, and my charge is awesome, and I love that it gives me the freedom to pursue my degree.
But sometimes I wouldn’t mind playing hooky and getting out on one of the many trails around us on this side of the Bay, all rolling green hills and old-growth oaks and spring wildflowers.
“Sir?”
I blink, realize that while I’ve been daydreaming about poppies and blue lupines, the man in front of me has been searching his pockets.
And coming up empty.
“Your total is $23.26,” the cashier repeats, a little sharper now.
“Right,” the man says, patting his pockets in turn. “Just give me a second. I know my wallet?—”
“If you can’t pay, I’m going to have to ask you step aside and let the others behind you have their turn.” Her tone is brusque and cold and?—
Filled with disdain.
It slices through me, even though it’s not directed at me.
Because I've lived that life.
Because even today, I calculated my own spread on the conveyor belt, sitting behind the plastic divider, to a precise degree. I know that I have exactly the amount in my account to cover my food for the week.
Food and tuition. Medical debts and gas.
All of my expenses carefully worked out.
The man keeps searching. “I know I have?—”
Someone sighs behind me—a sharp irritated sound that zips through the air, stinging as it flies by me.
The man looks up, mid pocket-pat, and I almost gasp at the startling blue of his eyes.
They’re as bright as the cloudless sky outside the store and filled with embarrassment that has my heart squeezing.
“If you’ll just give me a moment,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing as they drift behind me, presumably toward the impatient sigher and the line that’s growing by the moment. “I have?—”
The cashier starts tapping on her keyboard again, this time angrily. “I’ll have to cancel the transaction, sir.”
It’s the condensation in her tone that unsticks me.
I double tap the side of my cell, take a step toward the man with the dirt marring his strong chin, clinging to the salt and pepper beard on his jaw, his cheeks. I slip between his strong, obviously hardworking body and the payment kiosk, avoiding those bright blue eyes as I say, “I’ve got it.”
That brilliant cerulean gaze comes to mine. “No, that’s?—”
But I’m already waving my phone at the machine, and it doesn’t so much as have to make contact to solve this problem.
Bleep-beep.
