He looks like he died several years ago. Now he’s just waiting for life to meet up with him. He glances backwards repeatedly, wondering whats taking so long. I see him accept a sullied coin and crinkled, worn bills from an over-privileged trust-fund larva in his outstretched, cracked, and bony hand. He opens the register and drops the change noisily into the drawer.
“Thanks” in a single shallow breath goes unnoticed as the youth turns his back and answers his obviously urgent text message.
As I stand at the ATM across the store and swipe my card, praying that my withdrawl goes through, I notice his eyelids fall and a muted sigh escape his dry mouth. The counter he stands behind is clean but gray with age, much like the man himself. Perhaps he is swimming in the dreams he left behind and the life he lived before he saw his town dominated by the fast food chains and the super discount stores that now surround the tiny grocery market his father opened decades ago. Maybe, he just wishes he could retire.