The Stranger With the Paper Slip
A woman stood beside me, her cheeks rosy from the cold outside. Her hair was tucked into a wool hat, and she held out a small piece of paper between her fingers.
“Hey—excuse me. You dropped this,” she said.
She offered my receipt like she was handing over a miniature flag of surrender. Her smile was quick and uncertain, the way people smile when they’re not sure if they’re helping or bothering you. I took the slip without dropping the eggs.
“Oh! Thank you,” I said, relieved.
We did that quick little side-to-side shuffle people do when they’re trying to pass each other in tight spaces. As we moved, I noticed her cart. Inside was a single hydrangea plant—blue, perfect, and looking wildly out of place in the middle of winter. Buying a blooming plant in February felt like an act of stubborn hope, and it made me smile without quite knowing why.
Then she was gone, swallowed back into the rhythm of the store.
