Tuesday, October 27th, 2020

The cashier at the supermarket downstairs asks me if I want a bag. This time, I do. I’m picking up a few other things while I’m here to get my yogurt and apple. Rather than the usual shopping bag, she picks up a much thinner one, usually used for produce. She stuffs my items into it as she scans them. That’s never happened before. We’ve always had to pack our own bags. She asks me if I want a spoon for my yogurt. I don’t. I have a spare one from when I made coffee earlier. The plastic spoons we have in the kitchen are thin enough that I often pick up two when I only mean to get one. My debit card doesn’t work when she scans it. Some machines have trouble with it. No problem. I use a different one. She insists on spraying alcohol gel onto my hands. OK. The bag of groceries doesn’t have handles. It starts to slide out of my hand while I’m in the elevator. I reach down with the other hand and cradle it from underneath. I have to do some juggling to enter the code to get back into the office. The bag tears just as I get to my desk. Nothing breaks. I have a cloth shopping bag in a drawer. I’ll use that when I go home.