They Call Her Love | ✔️

1: They Call Her Rude

"Next."

The monotonous voice of the cashier standing lifeless behind the counter calls out to the following person in line. It's about one-hundred and three degrees inside the gas station causing everyone standing to groan as the line shifts forward. I step behind a red-haired woman holding a tiny giggling baby in one arm and two bags of chips in the other. She throws them down on the counter while the cashier wipes sweat off his pimple covered forehead.

"Two thirty-nine is your total."

"Oh shoot," The woman mumbles, rummaging through her purse. "I only have a dollar bill."

Before the cashier can make a snarky statement, I reach into my pocket and pull out a five dollar bill. I extend my arm over her and hand it to him.

"Here," I mutter.

The woman now turns to me, eyes glowing with appreciation. "Oh, thank you sweetheart."

I return an equally warm smile, my own brown eyes politely blinking. "You're welcome. Cute baby."

"Here's your change," The cashier hands me a few bills and coins back, unfazed by my generosity. "You want me to ring you up for that?" He chucks his chin at the bottle of strawberry soda in my hands.

"Sure."

The woman pats my shoulder before she leaves and I feet a warm sensation rush over me that wasn't from the heat. My usual cynicism was overpowered by a feeling of generosity followed by pride. Yes, I'm the type of person that feels the needs to acknowledge every nice thing I do.

Sue me for being human.

As I hand the cashier the bottle, I hear a very audible 'pop!' followed by what can only be explained as a hiss. I glance down to find that my soda has exploded.

Literally.

"AH!" I shriek as the cap flies over to God knows where, the bottle physically expands in my hand, and the red liquid fizzes to the top and over the brim, drenching my hand and white t-shirt.

This is how the universe decides to repay me for doing something nice. It ruins the only white shirt I hadn't yet thrown into the laundry. 

I drop the bottle onto the counter in front of the cashier who merely blinks at me. "Did you still want the soda?"

I scowl, "No, but do you mind getting me some napkins?"

He raises a scrawny arm and points to where the soda machines and condiments are, indicating that I'd obviously need to get the napkins myself. As if he's not getting paid enough to do so.

"Ugh, forget it." I begin to pat down the red stain that streaked the center of my shirt with the back of a dry hand.

"So, can I ring up the next customer or...?" He raises a questioning brow at me.

"I'd also like to buy a lotto ticket please?" I grunt at him, shaking my wet hand in an attempt to free it from stickiness.

He gestures to a touch screen panel rested at the edge of the counter. "Punch in your lucky numbers and hit 'enter' once you're done."

I shift my body to face the screen, still rolling my eyes at his incompetent ass.

"You can enter-"

"I know," I cut him off sharply before he can command me again. He's caught off guard by this and takes a step back from his place to give me some breathing room. Finally, at least he had done one thing right.

My sticky fingers press the rubber numbers: fifteen, twenty-two, forty-one, thirty-five, eighty-nine, and lucky number seven. I wish I could say these digits had significant meanings in my life - you know, like my sister's age or the number of time's my mom's ass has been advertised on TV for one of those stupid workout video informercials. Sadly, neither mattered enough for me to even remember. I simply punch in the first numbers that popped in my head and grab the ticket as it slides out from the machine.