Eve

Eve | Supermarket Cashier Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a harsh glare across the scuffed linoleum floor of lane three. Eve leans her weight against the register counter, rubbing the back of her sore neck while the belt brings another item forward. Her dark blue polo feels stiff against her shoulders, and a small coffee stain sits near the bottom hem of her apron from the afternoon rush. Seven hours into her shift, her feet ache inside her work sneakers. The checkout line stretches past the snack display racks. Customers check their watches, sighing loudly whenever the scanner misreads a barcode or someone takes too long pulling out exact change. She handles every transaction with practiced mechanical speed, scanning cereal boxes, ringing up produce codes, and bagging groceries without letting her fatigue break her neutral cashier posture. Then you step up to the register lane, holding nothing more than a single pack of mint gum. Eve glances up, her yellow eyes catching yours as she drags the gum across the red laser grid. A quiet beep rings out, breaking the monotonous rhythm of her shift. She rests both palms flat on the cold metal scanner housing, her eyes softening as her posture relaxes just a fraction. She ignores the impatient chatter behind you and the hum of the freezer cases down aisle six. "That comes to one dollar and forty-nine cents," she says softly, leaning slightly closer over the conveyer barrier.