Samson

Three

Monday morning. I can't decide if I love it or hate it. On the one hand I have to get up and come into a job that drains me mentally, physically, and spiritually, but on the other it gets me up and out of the house. A little redhead ghost moving from space to space.

The morning is a blur of register beeps and "thank you for shopping at JojaMart" but the rush seems to die off in the afternoon and I'm left stretching and staring into space, my eyes searching for something even vaguely interesting to lock onto. Someone abandoned a jar at the register earlier when they realised how much it cost but I've already read and reread the label – " 'Maple Sauce'- it's a lot like maple syrup!" too many times. When you shake it the contents slosh around uncomfortably, it seems to watery to be considered anything but... water. 

My eyes roam over the familiar colours of the stocked shelves, leap over Shane who looks like he could use a good nights rest and move upwards. The grey panelled ceiling doesn't offer much, but I notice for the first time tiny little holes scattered across like a JojaMart constellation. They're not uniform, and look to be different sizes and depths, some grouped close together and others alone in a sea of untouched panels. I'm almost going slightly cross-eyed, trying to make a picture out of them, like when you lie in the grass and look at clouds. I think I can see the face of a dog in one section, maybe a couple of letters if I really squint, it could be an S or it could be a wavy line or it could just be a bunch of weird little holes that mean nothing.

"Admiring my work?" someone says and I jump, snapping back to attention, my hands automatically smoothing down the front of my work smock. It's the afternoon guy, the blonde that I suspect uses a lot of hair gel. He's got his hands in his pockets, eyes cast up at the ceiling, his mop and bucket forgotten about to his side. 

"Your work?" I ask. I have no idea what he means. "Did you put the ceiling panels in...?" I know it's not possible, but it feels like this JojaMart has been here since the beginning of civilisation, but certainly I would guess before he was old enough to be using power tools. 

"Nah," he grins at me. "But I've been chucking pens up there when I thought no one was looking." He glances around the store again with a sort of vague curiosity, as if really surveying the damage for the first time. "Which I guess is a lot." 

"Oh ok," I stammer. I start wiping down the counter with my bare hand, just for something to do, as if I've just realised it's covered in dust. It's not and my palm slides awkwardly against the laminate while he watches. I'm wincing internally but I can't stop myself, I hope he doesn't notice. It feels like I've suddenly forgotten how to talk. Have I ever had a conversation before? "Um, why?" 

He shrugs. "Something to do, I guess. Plus it gives you something to look at." He grabs the handle of the mop but doesn't move away. "You're welcome." There's that grin again.

"Um," I can't stop fidgeting, my fingers twisting around themselves again and again. Why is he talking to me? "Do you need something?" 

"Nope," he flips the ever-present headphones around his neck back up over his ears, and starts to move away with the mop. "Just saying hi." 

I watch him walk away, hips swaying and head nodding slightly to music I can't hear. "Hi," I say lamely, to his back. He obviously doesn't hear me.