16 December 2012

Credit Card

I behave very inappropriately at work. Most of the time, I employ a general tenor of sarcasm during my interactions with customers, but recently it seems like I'm sinking into total opposite-speak. Basically, I'm just lying. To everyone.

It isn't that bad. When I worked at Shag (the aforementioned mid-century modern furniture store), I had a very disconcerting interaction with a customer. This woman, upon entering the store, was not aware of the fact that the shop she was about to patronize had not been inhabited by anyone aside from myself  for over a week. I, the only other person in the room, had not spoken to anyone in seven hours and had resorted to seek amusement in the doldrums of business hours-imposed urine retention. After selecting an item to purchase, an egg beater, the woman approached my desk, on the surface of which my forehead had been pressed for the duration of her visit. She handed me her credit card. I bite my cuticles. That is to say, I tear pieces of flesh off of my fingers with my teeth and eat them. There's usually blood near my nails. This day had been a nail-biter; I was bored and hungry and naturally, as her card lay loosely in my hand, it became coated in finger blood. She didn't know what to say. I didn't apologize; I just made a sound and did a real shitty job wiping it off with the hem of my shirt, which was yellow and now also stained with blood. There was a small puddle on the counter. Her receipt was red. She looked sick. I am a disgusting person. I wonder what she made with that egg beater, if anything. Maybe she had plans to make something but decided against it because our encounter was so disgusting. I'll always wonder if she made chocolate mousse.

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