By: Seth Jones
SPOILED MILK
The girl stepped out of the black sedan and onto the parking lot of the convenience store. The cool air felt good against her white skin. She adjusted the hem of her knee-high skirt and the garments beneath as she exchanged pleasantries with the man driving. She closed the door and placed the folded bills he’d given her into a small shoulder purse and entered the store. The sedan drove away. It was late at night.
The clerk watched as she entered the store. He had seen her before. He was wiping the counter as she entered. He said hello. She repeated the pleasantry and asked for a pack of filtered cigarettes.
“Slow night?” the girl asked.
“Five fifty,” the clerk said. “Up and down, you know.”
She recalled the folded bills from her small shoulder purse and passed the clerk a ten.
“What about you?” the clerk asked, not looking up from the register, where he was making change.
“So, so,” she said, taking the change from his outstretched hand.
“A woman came in earlier and griped about buying bad milk here,” the clerk said. “She left it in a parked car for too long and it spoiled. How is that my fault?”
The girl shrugged.
“She should have known better than to leave milk in a car,” the clerk said. “Milk spoils in hot cars.”
It depends how long it’s in there, she thought. The girl retrieved the cigarettes from the counter. “Thanks,” she said.
“How much longer are you working tonight?” the clerk asked the girl. “The store closes in six minutes. I can give you a ride home.”
She considered it for a second and said, “No, thanks. I think I’ll walk.”
