Written on January 13, 2015.
A young kid (5 or 6 years old) runs into your character at the supermarket. They have been yelled at by their sister.
As soon as I walk into the store, I'm headed to the juice section. It's different from the last time, and irritating that the distance from the entrance to the juice is twice that it was before. The walk from my apartment is already a whole block plus an 80 floor elevator ride, why did they have to make it that much harder?
My gaze sweeps across the wide juice section as I try to make a decision; in the back of my omniscient mind, I'm vaguely aware of an argument going on elsewhere in the store. Irrelevant and unimportant, as is the whirlwind of information about all the other things going on globally. I've learned to push it all to the back of my mind; to focus on the more concerning matters at hand. Like which juice is most organic and most likely to be free range.
The vague notion that I'm about to be crashed into is completely ignored until a small figure thumping into my side contains enough force to knock off my balance. I stumble a bit to my left before catching my balance and turning to face the crying girl now seated on the floor. Inquiring her name and age takes a fraction of a second, and then the information is there at the forefront of my mind; (Katrina, 6). I grimace as I realize that social norms require me to interact with and comfort her. I crouch down, careful not to wrinkle my custom-tailored suit; any more ironing than necessary could damage the fabric. I hesitantly place my hand on her shoulder.
"Why are you crying?" I try. Her sobs are few and far between now, and she seems a bit caught off guard by the unusual nature of my speech.
"M-my sister yelled at me," she chokes out, lip wibbling.
"Why did you sister yell at you?" I do my best impression of a sympathetic expression; I'm not entirely sure how convincing it is. I idly wonder how long I'm going to have to keep this up; how long do I have to keep asking questions to which I already know the answer?
"She said I put too many Mac n' Cheeses in the basket. But it was just the right amount of Mac n' Cheeses! I hate her!"
"How many boxes of Macaroni and Cheese did you put in the basket?" I put my face on my fist, propping up my elbow on the straining black fabric of the right thigh of my pants as I continue to crouch.
"Seven," she says, crossing her tiny arms. "One for all the days of the week. I can sing all the days on the Days of the Week song!"
"That is a perfect amount of Macaroni and Cheese. Why does your sister disagree?" Because they're poor.
"She said we can't afford it… what does that mean?" Her eyes are huge as she asks this, staring into my blank face.
I sigh, pulling a $20 bill out of my pocket and sticking it into the picket of her overalls; more than enough for 7 boxes of macaroni. Money should never be a reason not to do something. "Why don't you go back to your sister and give her that? Then she'll get you that macaroni," I tell her.
She beams up at me, smile covering her entire face, then stands up on her stubby little legs and runs off.
As soon as I walk into the store, I'm headed to the juice section. It's different from the last time, and irritating that the distance from the entrance to the juice is twice that it was before. The walk from my apartment is already a whole block plus an 80 floor elevator ride, why did they have to make it that much harder?
My gaze sweeps across the wide juice section as I try to make a decision; in the back of my omniscient mind, I'm vaguely aware of an argument going on elsewhere in the store. Irrelevant and unimportant, as is the whirlwind of information about all the other things going on globally. I've learned to push it all to the back of my mind; to focus on the more concerning matters at hand. Like which juice is most organic and most likely to be free range.
The vague notion that I'm about to be crashed into is completely ignored until a small figure thumping into my side contains enough force to knock off my balance. I stumble a bit to my left before catching my balance and turning to face the crying girl now seated on the floor. Inquiring her name and age takes a fraction of a second, and then the information is there at the forefront of my mind; (Katrina, 6). I grimace as I realize that social norms require me to interact with and comfort her. I crouch down, careful not to wrinkle my custom-tailored suit; any more ironing than necessary could damage the fabric. I hesitantly place my hand on her shoulder.
"Why are you crying?" I try. Her sobs are few and far between now, and she seems a bit caught off guard by the unusual nature of my speech.
"M-my sister yelled at me," she chokes out, lip wibbling.
"Why did you sister yell at you?" I do my best impression of a sympathetic expression; I'm not entirely sure how convincing it is. I idly wonder how long I'm going to have to keep this up; how long do I have to keep asking questions to which I already know the answer?
"She said I put too many Mac n' Cheeses in the basket. But it was just the right amount of Mac n' Cheeses! I hate her!"
"How many boxes of Macaroni and Cheese did you put in the basket?" I put my face on my fist, propping up my elbow on the straining black fabric of the right thigh of my pants as I continue to crouch.
"Seven," she says, crossing her tiny arms. "One for all the days of the week. I can sing all the days on the Days of the Week song!"
"That is a perfect amount of Macaroni and Cheese. Why does your sister disagree?" Because they're poor.
"She said we can't afford it… what does that mean?" Her eyes are huge as she asks this, staring into my blank face.
I sigh, pulling a $20 bill out of my pocket and sticking it into the picket of her overalls; more than enough for 7 boxes of macaroni. Money should never be a reason not to do something. "Why don't you go back to your sister and give her that? Then she'll get you that macaroni," I tell her.
She beams up at me, smile covering her entire face, then stands up on her stubby little legs and runs off.