There is a woman trying to get into my supermarket. She’s banging on the sliding door glass, an urgent silhouette against swirling fog and darkness. My manager told me it’s not safe outside at night, but the woman doesn’t seem afraid, for all her banging. She is smiling. Not a nice smile. A Skibidi smile, all teeth and gums and painfully stretched skin.
I do not think I should let the woman in, but she explains to me in text dialogue that I have it all backwards. She’s not outside the store. I am. So really, if I let her in I’m only letting myself in. I do not find this gnomic insight reassuring. I tell her to clear off. She doesn’t press her case, but comments before drifting away that there might be consequences later. I silently observe that I would rather have consequences later than consequences right now.
