Old People and Rotting Fruit

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The day starts with the scent of old people and rotting fruit, the signature smell of Grumble Bee. It differs depending on the season and the day of the week (in the spring its strawberries, on Wednesdays it's Mrs. Collins dusty perfume). The scent is suffocating, filtering in through Meredith’s nostrils and settling in her bones, an extra weight that makes her slouch more into the cradle of her hip.
It’s currently 9:27 a.m, and Mrs. Collins is positioned in front of the cash register, glaring down at the number printed across the small screen with squinted eyes.


“It’s $68.25, ma’am.” Meredith resists a sigh, instead pushing her lips together into a tight-lipped smile. The old woman looks up, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth clear and unflattering under the harsh fluorescent lighting. She nods before reaching into her purse, pulling out crumpled receipts and expired coupons in the process of rummaging for her wallet.


“You know, back in my day, you could get groceries for $10,” she says, swiping her card through the machine, “things nowadays are so expensive, makes me almost glad I’m dying soon.”
Used to the woman's blunt nature, Meredith simply begins picking at her nail beds, stopping only when a loud ERROR message sounds from the card machine. Mrs. Collins wacks it with her fist, cursing through her dentured teeth.


“You come here every week, Mrs. Collins, why do you always forget how to work the machine, and why do you never bring cash?”


“Well, back in my—”
“You know what, the groceries are on me,” Meredith grins widely, stretching her cheeks in a way that feels forced, awkward, “goodnight, Mrs. Collins.”


The stout woman leaves with a huff, the sound of her kitten heels clacking on the linoleum floors echoes through the store as she exits.
Meredith checks her watch again: 9:32 a.m, “I’m taking my break!” She yells to whatever management is working today, making her way to the back exit.


Outside, the concrete is wet, raindrops dripping down from the overhang. Meredith isn’t one for rain, but the petrichor is a nice reprieve from the stench inside. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the wind extinguishing the flame several times before Meredith can manage to light the stick. Once the familiar warmth of smoke travels down to her lungs, she lets out a groan of relief.

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