Taking Down the Clearance Triangle Kimbap and Closing the Drawer
At 5:40 I drop into a crouch in front of the clearance display. Six triangle kimbap, two lunch boxes. I check each sticker, then move them into the basket.
The refrigerator motor cycles twice. Three rows of the drink case are empty; one box will cover the order. It runs longer on the doors that open often, so I count by the sound—two rows of beer, one of milk.
A drunk who has been standing in front of the cup noodles takes his time choosing, then buys only water and leaves. The bell over the door rings.
I draw the cup-noodle row forward until the faces sit even. Every slot is short by a knuckle.
Soon a customer on the way to work sets bottled water and gum on the counter. I take one breath to steady myself and open my mouth.
"Shall I ring these up as clearance?"
Thirtieth time. It doesn't take.
"I'm all right."
The customer pays with five thousand won. Water, 1,200; gum, 2,000. The total is 3,200.
Five thousand minus 3,200 leaves 1,800. Exact, down to the last unit. I set the change in my palm and pass it over.
I check the receipt total again. 3,200 won. I fold it and lay it on top.
I swap in a fresh roll of receipt paper. The spent core goes into the trash.
Two more umbrellas have joined the lost-and-found box. I write the date on a slip and tie it to each handle.
The bottom of the box is empty. That was where the dentures were.
I open the drawer. Three chargers. None of them fits my phone. I close the drawer.
The phone battery is down to the red bar. I read the last episode all the way through.
The store owner's note reads:
Freezer frost.
I open the door and look. The frost is thin. I scraped it yesterday.
I check the clock. 5:52.
I pull the chair over and sit. The motor runs. One, two, three.
I close my eyes.