Declaration of War

It’s been a while since I wrote about the woman who works at the Big Y self-checkout, and our relationship is still fraught. She continues to hold my misidentification of a European cucumber, made literally years ago, against me. I continue to smile in her direction even as she pointedly ignores me. I tell her “have a nice day” when I leave, which fine, I don’t mean, but she doesn’t know that.

Last week, while checking out, I saw a chance at redemption. Sourpuss’s hair looked different. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why, but she’d clearly done something. “New haircut?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “It looks different to me.” I added, “In a good way,” to rule out even the slightest possibility of offense.

She frowned and shrugged before going to help out some geezer. He dropped a can of tuna on the floor, and they both started laughing.

“Have a nice day,” I told her as I left, and yes, I was being sarcastic, but she was still yucking it up with the geezer so I doubt she even heard me, not that it would have mattered.

When I went back to Big Y yesterday, my nemesis was there in her stupid smock. Her hair looked like it usually did. I realized what was different last week were her bangs, which she usually keeps cemented off her forehead to better showcase her scowl.

I opened my mouth to tell her I’d figured out the bangs thing but in that moment my need for approval ran out the clock. I no longer had the energy to ingratiate myself. I bagged my groceries and walked silently, all business, to the door. It had almost slid shut behind me when I heard her call after me, “Have a nice day.”

The game is, apparently, still on.