She scans the same bag of oranges three times because the machine won't believe her, and I would give anything to be that annoyed.
Look at her hands. She doesn't watch them at all. Fingers finding the barcode by feel, sliding the box across the glass until it chirps, catching the receipt as it curls out warm, all while her mind is somewhere else entirely, on dinner, on the boy, on nothing. She has forgotten she is made of hands.
The machine keeps interrupting her: unexpected item in the bagging area, please wait for assistance, and she huffs, that lovely small storm of impatience, and blows a strand of hair off her forehead.
I remember the strand of hair. I remember the exact frustration of the light blinking red while a whole line waits behind you. Back then I thought it was the worst part of the day. Now I understand it was the day. Standing on aching feet in fluorescent light, cold from the milk cooler at my back, tapping a card, fumbling coins, all of it warm, all of it mine, all of it happening to a body that would answer when I called it.
She's swearing at it now, softly. The attendant comes with a bored little key and fixes nothing, and they share a look, two strangers united for one second against a stubborn machine, and neither of them knows they were just given something.
Take the whole cart's worth of it, love. Be furious at the beeping. Feel the cold oranges. Let the receipt trail past your knees.
And when you finally get outside, into the wind, breathing, notice for one heartbeat that you can.