A THING by MIRANDA STEINWAY
The Cashier At Trader Joe’s Flirted Too Much And Now I’m In Love
There’s something in the air at Trader Joe’s. Apart from the affordable pre-made dinners and the adorable seasonal snacks, there’s another kind of seduction going on. A raw sexual tension bounces off the reclaimed cement walls. Romance lingers under hand-painted murals of local landmarks. The cashiers, clad in Hawaiian print shirts, are so friendly, it borders on flirtatious.
“Are you dairy-free? Me too! You should try our new vegan butter.”
“You’re a rosé girl, I see.”
“Mediterranean Style Hummus? You have great taste.”
It’s not what they say, so much as how they say it—with a laid-back confidence and a sly grin. As a regular customer, I’ve gotten used to this sultry style of grocery shopping. I’ve come to expect it. I’ve even played along. But, on this otherwise unremarkable Tuesday evening, the cashier motions to me that I’m next in line and everything changes. It doesn’t feel like a performance anymore. It’s real.
I lay down my basket at his register and time stands still. I dive into his big brown eyes and swim in the crystal clear pool of his soul. In this sacred moment of pure euphoria, we’re no longer two separate people, we’re two halves of a whole. Together, we are one and we are infinite. He smiles widely as he types in the code for my avocados.
“Wow, did you feel that too?” he asks.
“Yes, I did. I’ve never felt this before. It’s like–”
He joins me to say it in unison. “We’re strangers, but we’ve known each other forever.”
We both chuckle. Our laughs harmonize, making beautiful music together. He raises an eyebrow. “I think we might be soulmates.”
I melt into a puddle on the floor. I don’t think it, I know it.
He asks me where I’m from, as he scans my can of organic black beans. I ask him if he’s close with his family. He asks me about my biggest goals in life, as he looks up the code for my spaghetti squash. I ask him who his dream dinner guest is, alive or dead. The line grows longer and longer behind me.
The woman who is next in line impatiently taps her foot and exaggeratedly clears her throat. He ignores her. He unfolds a paper bag as he tells me that his biggest fear is public speaking. I tell him that my biggest fear is dying alone. He places my Candy Cane Joe-Joes in the bag and then softly lays his hand on mine.
I reveal that I’ve had my heart broken too many times. He reveals that he’s had his heart broken twice and that the last time hurt the most. Another thing we have in common. I explain that I broke up with my most recent ex because he wasn’t a good communicator. He nods and exclaims that that’s what he loves about me, that I’m such an honest, straight shooter.
He tells me that he’s never fully recovered from his grandmother’s death. She was his best friend when he was a child. I tell him that I wish I could’ve met her. He says that she would’ve adored me. We both pause, soaking in the quiet magnitude of our connection.
“Should we take these plantain chips straight to the altar and get married right now?” he asks.
My eyes well up with hot salty tears, saltier than any plantain chip. “I think we should.”
I can feel my spirit leave my body. It looks down on me, and on us, and tells me this is destiny. He scans my final item: baby carrots. He presses a few buttons. My heart hammers against my chest, hanging on his every move. He looks up at me again and beams.
“That’ll be $76.82.”
Miranda Steinway is a writer based in Los Angeles. Her stories have appeared in Across the Margin, Bending Genres, Ellipsis Zine, and Maudlin House, among others. Find her on mirandasteinway.com.