You are standing at the little kiosk again, scanning your own groceries, jaw tight because the scale says there's an unexpected item in the bagging area and there isn't, there's just your loaf of bread. You will lift it and set it down. Lift it and set it down. A red light will blink. A young worker will wander over, tap a screen, wave you through with a bored kindness you will not register as kindness for another thirty years.
You think this is a waste of your time. You think the machine is stupid, and you are right, it is. But listen.
You are buying dinner for people who are still alive tonight. The cart has the cereal only one of them likes. You reached for it without thinking, the way you reach for everything now, sure there will always be a hand to pass it to.
Someday you would give a great deal to be annoyed by this exact machine, with this exact bread, on this exact ordinary Tuesday, with the whole loud house waiting.
So let it beep. Let the light blink. Bag the bread slow.
You have nowhere better to be than right there, though I promise you do not believe me yet.