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The day as a cashier at the fancy grocery store on the day before Christmas Eve, I was feeling fine, imagining I’d dosed myself pefectly for the shift when I noticed the tattoo of a young woman, moving, the tattoo was moving, I was the only one seeing it, I had awakened to my altered state with seven and a half hours to go in my shift, on the second busiest day of the grocery year. Fuck.
Her eyes, the girl with the tattoo’s eyes, were red and hazy as expected. And she was too pretty to be shopping for herself, too pretty, too young, too tattood. The tiny asteral map on her wrist twisted to show the movement of the planets. I watched the threads for a second, and jolted back to awareness. “Oh! Excuse me.”
The woman looked at me. She knew. She was doing it. Something she’d put in her perfume. A pink mist seemed to be emanating from her eyes. I was swimming. Ringing up her brocolli. Garlic Butter. And 29 tubes of Burt’s Bees Chapstick.
I realized I was unable to speak. I did my best smile. She seemed amused at my discomfort. Or was she flirting with her smile? I was unable to sort my thoughts from what was actually happening. I felt like I had a few options. 1. I could faint. Call for first aid, and go home early. 2. Pretend I saw nothing out of the ordinary, and try to continue for the rest of my shift. 3. Agree to lose my mind and shift into the alternate timeline created by the split, refusing to pull out.
Now, I had no more options. The total amount had been presented. Her card was declined. A small line was forming behind her. She tried another card. “Insufficient funds.” “Sorry. I don’t know what’s happening.”
I suspended her transaction. “You can take your cart over there, with that nice man in the hat, he’s going to help you with your card. Thank you.”
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