It’s her job to keep vigil of the small pad of paper next to the overpriced pens, to make sure there is enough space for doodling, signatures, and the occasional confession. Her job until she finds a better job, a real job, but she’s been out of work for too long, and now marketing copy is written by robots and she has never been strong at bookkeeping, even her own.

Some customers draw squiggles or three-dimensional boxes. She finds spirals and infinity signs. An elderly man boasts that he can draw a perfectly straight arrow. Occasionally a profanity.

Eat me. Bite me, written with a garden party gel pen.

Three weeks before her husband killed himself, a stranger at the grocery store told her that she was blessed. Her toddler sat in the shopping cart with a smile and a wave for everyone. Her baby slept against her chest in the carrier—his soft cheek glued to her skin with his drool. After the meals and groceries stopped crowding her front steps and freezer, she was responsible for feeding her children again. They never cared for the lasagna or Shepard’s pie—meals convenient for freezing but unsuitable for toddler and baby taste buds.

Sometimes she wonders about her bad luck. Maybe it was the test paper she stole off the History teacher’s desk in 8th grade, and how she lied about it when they questioned her. Not me, she said. Someone else.

I have lice, someone writes in green cursive.

Let me get a different pen, the pediatrician said when she was fourteen, leaving her topless and cold on the examining table, wondering why.

Don’t tell her, in opaque ink.

When her son’s fever doesn’t drop by Monday, she decides he’s just about old enough to stay home alone. He can call her at work in case of an emergency. The $85 she’ll make during these six hours will fill the gas tank and pay for the children’s Motrin if she can find any on her way home.

At the end of the shift, she tears off the sheet and smiles when she sees her name. She looks around. She’s never met another one. Is this customer also named after the dad she never met?

Maybe it’s because she’s never been caught stealing one of the Positive Pens ($15.95) – the gray one that nobody every buys, with the mantra: Today is a Good Day. 

A smooshed stink bug lies besides the pens, and she uses a blank page to scoop and discard the carcass.

I love you. I love you. I love you, written with the iridescent fur pom pen.

This time she pulls the paper off carefully. Before she leaves, she folds her love message, careful not to crease the edges, and drops it inside her coat pocket next to her heart.

Liz3

Liz Matthews holds a Master of Fine Arts in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a Master of Arts in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University. Liz is the the Program Director of the Westport Writers’ Workshop, a nonprofit literary organization based in Westport, Connecticut where she also teaches creative writing workshops. Her short fiction and essays have appeared in Milk Candy Review, The Tishman Review, The Rumpus, and Brevity among other places.