You are annoyed by it, the way it curls out of the machine longer than the meal itself, the way it snags in your pocket and comes out later a soft gray wad. You will crumple it without reading. Do that. But look, just once, at the bottom, where it printed the date and the time down to the minute.
That was a Tuesday. You bought oat milk, bananas, the good coffee, and a birthday card you hadn't decided who for yet. Six fourteen in the evening. You were tired and a little hungry and thinking about nothing, which is the exact texture of a day I would give a great deal to stand inside again.
I don't remember the receipt. I remember the kitchen you carried the bag into. The light at that hour. Someone humming in the next room, someone who is not always going to be in the next room, though you needn't hear that as a bell tolling. Just, they were there, and you didn't have to think about it, and that not-having-to-think is its own kind of wealth you'll only price correctly much later.
So here is the whole instruction. Keep buying bananas. Keep being casually rich in ordinary Tuesdays. And when the little slip curls out and you go to ball it up, let your thumb rest one second on the time stamp.
Six fourteen. You were fine.
You just didn't know yet how fine.