“Huh… is that how you see it.”
“Rock paper scissors,” she says.
“For the can.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Only fair way to settle it.”
I could argue. Could push it. Could take the damn thing back.
I don’t.
Partly because I’m not getting into a tug-of-war with a hot woman over cat food under fluorescent lighting. Partly because she’s looking at me like she’d enjoy me trying.
“Fine.”
She wins.
Quick.
Sure of it.
“Fair and square.”
“Sure.”
“You agreed to the terms.”
“I’m aware.”
She starts toward the registers, then looks back over her shoulder.
“Pet store on Fourth has the same brand,” she says. “Cheaper, too.”
That gets me.
She doesn’t hand it back. Doesn’t pretend she should. She takes the can like a criminal and still gives me directions like she has manners buried under all that attitude.
“Good luck with your cat,” she says.
“Yeah. You too.”
Then she’s gone. I stand there a second, basket in hand, looking at the empty shelf.
Hell of a Tuesday.
I grab the shit brand, check out, and head back to the car.
I replay the catch on the drive home. Clean hands. No hesitation. Like she already knew the can was hers before either of us touched it.
Brick meets me at the door. He immediately clocks the bag.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
He doesn’t say a thing, which somehow still feels judgmental. I put the bowl down. He inspects it like I’ve handed him a trust exercise instead of dinner. At first he turns his nose up. Then, thankfully, he eats it anyway.
At least one of us can adapt.
