Payment Sadie Bartels “You’re short.”
Marina looked up. “Sorry?” “You’re short of the price,” the cashier repeated. “A cent short, to be exact.” In his hand sat a messy collection of wadded-up dollar bills and a variety of coins. On the counter sat a bag of chips. Marina eyed the chips, and then the change in the cashier’s palm. She fumbled for her wallet. “Only a cent?” she asked. “Yup.” The wallet was in her back pocket. She fished it out and unzipped it, her hands feeling awkward and clammy. The fluorescent lights above hummed in an unceasing whine. Outside, someone was pumping gas, leaning against the side of their pickup truck with their hands folded across their chest. There was no money inside the wallet. Marina had known that, and yet she’d thought that maybe, somehow, there’d be a penny inside she might have missed. But there wasn’t. Her fingers searched desperately for the cold, metallic surface of a coin or the soft, worn paper of a dollar bill, and found only the leathery folds of the wallet, clean of anything except an old receipt for fast food and a business card. She tucked it back into her pocket. “Come on,” she said. “It’s just a cent. Who cares?” The cashier looked at her impassively. He wore a button-up shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. His name tag, clearly cheap plastic, read Ian. Judging by the youthful curves of his face, the smoothness of his pale skin, and the fullness of his rich brown hair, he wasn’t any older than twenty-two. “It’s necessary for you to pay the full price, ma’am,” he replied, in the same manner one might try to explain something to a whiny toddler. “Company policy.” Marina hoped he didn’t see the warmth rising in her cheeks. She desperately searched the white-tiled floor for a glint of copper, and saw only reflections of stark-white light. Outside, an ambulance flew down the freeway, sirens blaring and lights flashing red, momentarily breaking the shroud of night before once again pitching everything beyond the gas station into darkness. Marina looked up at the chips. They were Sour Cream and Onion Lays, the package depicting two golden slivers of potato, dusted with flavorful flecks of green. Her mouth watered. God, she was hungry. Yet she reached out to take them off the counter, searching for the shelf she’d taken them from. “Wait,” the cashier said. Marina turned. 85
