Motherfucking Costco

A pack of cigarettes, a carton of eggs, and a pair of socks weighed in to an eight pound receipt. Barely within her leftover week's budget. By the deep-set crows feet and the parallel lines crossing her forehead, one would guess the woman was, perhaps, on the verge of sixty; she was a fortnight from forty. A spattering of raised moles sat on her cheeks and what was exposed of her withered hands as they fished through her wallet for her last note of ten. "Only ninety to begin with," she muttered. "Quite a week, quite a week..." Whether she was addressing the clerk or herself was left for debate.

The clerk, a youthful black man who only worked here to help pay through university, carefully bagged her items. "Has the Lord been testing you this week?" he asked sincerely. He truly enjoyed the customers, although the job was rather monotonous and he was paid barely above minimum wage.

"I should think so!" she said indignantly, taking her only bag, yet lingering a while more to speak with the clerk. "Price's raised on smokes, neighbors hollering away... Received a letter last week from the devil himself."

The clerk shook his head. "I'll be praying for you, madame. What might that letter have said?"

Irene wasn't exactly used to being called "madame". She took this very well, and proceeded into a long, detailed explanation of the disturbing update she had received from her estranged son. "Rather vague," she finished with.

The clerk shook his head. Business was slow, so there were barely any people in the store today. "That sounds absolutely terrifying. I do hope things get better for you and your son."