The clock on the office wall had become my closest companion that Tuesday, each tick stretching longer than the last. By six, I’d memorized every scuff on my desk and counted the ceiling tiles twice. At 31, my life had narrowed into a hallway of small, predictable rooms, and I wasn’t sure when that had happened.
I walked the same six blocks to the same little grocery store, the way I did every weeknight.
She counted out my change and pushed the bills across the counter with the receipt.
“Evening,” I muttered to the cashier, sliding a frozen lasagna, a soda, and a bag of pretzels across the counter.
“Cash or card?”
“Cash.”
She rang me up without looking up. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere behind me a freezer hummed.