Chapter Text
The salad mix always seems like a good idea. Greta tosses a bag into her basket, glancing at the registers. There is a sweet cashier with a mullet and round tortoiseshell glasses who often works Sunday evening, and she was always flirty with Greta. Most recently, she'd pulled a chocolate bar from the check out display and broke it into pieces in the packaging, before looking at Greta with a wink "since this one was broken I'll discount it for you." It never showed up on Greta's receipt. Greta counted the rings on the woman's hands as she broke apart a few of the little squares.
Soup dumplings, the only thing Greta has the energy to make for dinner lately after long days at the marketing firm. She pauses, and puts a second bag in her basket.
A small tub of yogurt, granola, those little sesame snaps. The store is busy with people trying to get their weekly grocery trip done 30 minutes before close. Greta stands in front of the refrigerator section as a woman in bumps into her en route to pluck a green juice off of the shelf directly in front of Greta. Hastily, Greta pulls two Pink Lady Apple kombucha bottles from the shelf, they clink together lightly in her basket.
***
The cashier slides items across the glass, each scan beeping in quick succession. Mullet girl is no where to be found, so probably no free chocolate bars this trip. This cashier's brown hair is pulled back in a half-ponytail, little wispy bits frame her face. That gaudy floral print shirt hangs loose on her frame, cuffed jeans, a pair of Van's. In another life, Greta could've sworn it was her.
"These are the best!" the cashier holds up one of the bags of frozen soup dumplings, smile lines crinkle at the corners of her eyes above her face mask. And Greta freezes. That voice. The cashier tilts her head, thoughtful.
"You look so much like..." the cashier starts to scan, and chat, again.
"Carson?" Greta can barely get the name past her lips. Her eyes lock onto the nametag Carson is wearing, confirming what she knew. The face mask she's wearing feels too tight suddenly, her hands start to shake. "I didn't know you were..."
"Greta?" Carson's eyes are wide, darting to the line that's forming quickly at her register. She takes a quick glance at her watch, and with a nod and a hand raise flags down a coworker, possibly a manager. Greta is trying desperately to hold her composure. She hasn't seen Carson in 8 years, and now she's face to face with her in her neighborhood Trader Joe's.
Carson rings her out, Greta taps her card to the screen and tries to slip out of the interaction silently, quickly gathering her bagged groceries.
"Greta, wait!" Carson follows, Greta's reciept in her hand, trying not to draw attention to them. Greta turns to meet Carson's gaze. "I got Zach to cover my register. Do you have a minute?"