The Searing Shame of Having to Whisper to the Supermarket Assistant to Remove the Cheese

Dear Delyara, I stood at the self-checkout today, my hands shaking as the terminal screen flashed red with the words Declined. I knew exactly why. I’d done the mental math in the aisle, but I’d forgotten about a small direct debit that must have gone out this morning. I had to flag down the young assistant, a kid who looked about nineteen, and whisper into the noise of the shop that I needed her to take back the block of cheddar and the small loaf of sourdough. I could feel the hot, burning flush of failure creeping up my neck as the person waiting behind me let out a long, theatrical sigh. I work forty-five hours a week at a job that leaves my back aching, and yet I cannot reliably afford groceries in this city. It makes me feel less than human.