He was surrounded by broken bottles.
Juice. Ocean Spray. Cranberry and grape. The big sixty-four-ounce glass ones. At least eight of them. Shattered across the linoleum. Red and purple juice spreading out in a wide sticky pool. Shards of glass everywhere. Glittering under the fluorescent lights.
The stock cart was tipped at an angle. One of its wheels had come off the floor. The cardboard case on the top shelf of the cart was crushed and soaked.
Henry was standing in the middle of it.
His sneakers were wet. There was purple juice splashed up the legs of his khakis.
He was holding his hands up in front of him. Palms out. Like he was trying to stop something.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up. I’ll clean it up right now.”
His voice was shaking.
The woman was standing about six feet away from him.
Fifties. Tall. Thin. Platinum blonde hair blown out perfectly. Big diamond earrings. A white puffer vest over a black athletic top. Expensive leggings. White sneakers that had never seen a gym.
She was holding her phone in one hand.
She had her other hand on her hip.
“Clean it up?” she snapped. “Clean it up? You shouldn’t even have this job!”
Henry flinched.
Like she’d thrown something at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was stocking. And the cart—”
“I don’t care about the cart!”
“I was just trying to—”
“I asked you for one bottle,” the woman said. Loud. Louder than she needed to be. “One bottle of cranberry juice. From the cart. Because the shelf was empty. How hard can that be?”
She rolled her eyes. Dramatically. At nobody. At the ceiling.
“Bruuuh,” she said.
Henry kept apologizing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m really sorry. I’ll get you a new one. From the back. I’ll get a mop. I’m sorry.”
He was saying it over and over. Faster and faster. Like if he said it enough times, she’d stop.
She didn’t stop. 