Tuesday morning, February 12.
Somewhere in Florida.
“You made me promises promises
Knowing I’d believe
You knew you’d never keep...” plays over the loudspeaker.
The cashier’s name tag says “CINDY”. She sings along under breath, her feet and hips moving to the beat. I picture her dancing to the same song 35 younger, before the sun and cigarettes did their work.
She smiles at the man in line in front of us. Red hearts and “I Bless the Day God Led Me to You” embossed in gold adorn the black card in his hand. He sets it on the counter with a bottle of orange Gatorade and a box of instant potatoes. His dread locks extend beyond the hem of his chef’s coat.
“The nice thing about this job is you can just bring your own lunch, too. Anything microwaveable is generally good,” the older of the two men stocking the drink case tells the younger. He demonstrates how to carefully align the bottles with the labels all facing out.
Younger man nods, “Yeah.” Cuts open another case of Sprite.