Vancouver, Canada

I go to the twenty-four-hour supermarket because somebody there will say hello

Dear Delyara, I am seventy-two and live alone. My wife died eight years ago. Most days are manageable. Nights are different. Around eleven, the house begins feeling too quiet, so I go to the twenty-four-hour supermarket even when I need nothing. There is a cashier named Marco who works nights. He says, “Evening, sir,” and sometimes asks whether I found everything. That may be the only sentence another person says directly to me all day. I have begun buying one banana, one newspaper, milk I do not need, anything to justify the trip. Last night, Marco was not working. A self-checkout attendant pointed me toward the machines. I nearly went home without buying anything. Instead, I deliberately chose the staffed lane even though the queue was longer. The young woman said, “Hi, how are you?” I answered, “Fine, thank you,” because apparently when the thing you came for finally arrives, you still follow the script and lie.