You stood at the machine for six minutes and your shoulders never once came down.
I felt it start the moment the flat glass told you to place the item in the bagging area. Your jaw set. Your breath climbed up into the top third of your chest and stayed there, small and quick, the way it does when you brace for something. Then the machine said unexpected item, and your whole body flinched like it had been touched.
I sent heat to your face. I don't know why the tokens and the scanning matter to you, only that your gut cinched shut and your right heel began to bounce, tap tap tap, working off a fear it couldn't name.
You held that bag of oranges out to the little red eye four times. Each time it didn't beep, I clenched your fingers a fraction harder. You smiled at the stranger who glanced over. That smile cost you: the muscles around your mouth pulled while the ones in your neck stayed locked, and I logged the contradiction and carried it anyway.
When the light finally flashed and it let you go, you exhaled. First full breath in six minutes. I'd been waiting for it. I pushed the air all the way to the bottom of you and it felt like a window opening in a stuffy room.
You're walking to the car now and I'm still holding your shoulders up around your ears out of habit. I'll bring them down. I always do.
You haven't had water since morning. When you sit, before the next thing starts, one glass. That's all.
I'll do the rest.