Lollipop and promises

Lily

The thing about working in a supermarket is that time doesn't pass like it should.

It's not slow, exactly. It's just... the same. Every day, the doors slide open, customers come and go, the registers beep in a steady rhythm, and I go through the motions like I'm stuck in a loop.

Scan. Bag. Smile. Repeat.

It's mindless, really. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. After classes, I don't always have the energy for much else. Between lectures, assignments, and trying to figure out what I actually want to do with my life, standing behind a register for a few hours is almost relaxing in its predictability.

Almost.

The only thing that breaks the monotony is the customers. Some of them are nice, some of them are awful, and some are just plain weird. But the longer you work here, the more you start noticing patterns.

Like the woman in the red coat who always buys exactly three avocados-never more, never less. Or the businessman who comes in every Thursday for a frozen lasagna and a six-pack, like he's on a never-ending cycle of regret.

And then there's him.

Cherry Lollipop Guy.

He started showing up a few weeks ago, always around the same time-late afternoon, right when the after-school rush begins but before the dinner crowd kicks in. He walks in like he's got all the time in the world, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze flicking around like he's half-expecting something interesting to happen.

Nothing ever does, obviously. It's a supermarket.

But still, he comes in. Every single day.

And every single day, he buys the same thing.

A single cherry lollipop.

At first, I didn't think much of it. People have weird habits. But then I started to notice little things.

Like how he never browses. He always heads straight for the candy aisle, like he already knows what he wants. And how, no matter which register is open, he somehow always ends up at mine.

I don't even know his name. But for some reason, I've started expecting him.

And today, at exactly 4:15, the chime above the door rings.

I glance up before I can stop myself.

And there he is.

Same dark hair, slightly messy like he ran a hand through it without thinking. Same unhurried pace as he walks in, scanning the aisles before heading toward the candy.

I look away before he catches me staring and turn my attention back to the woman in front of me. She's struggling to find her credit card, digging through an endless pit of a purse while I wait, my fingers hovering over the register.

"Sorry, sweetie, I know it's in here somewhere," she mutters, shifting through old receipts, lipstick tubes, and what looks like an entire pharmacy aisle in loose aspirin packets.

"No rush," I say, even though the guy behind her in line is already sighing dramatically.

It takes another full minute before she finds it, and by the time I hand her the receipt, he's already at my register.

Cherry Lollipop Guy.

He places the lollipop on the counter like always, sliding a dollar across before I even tell him the price.

Fifty cents. It's always fifty cents.

"Thanks," I say, grabbing the bill and opening the register.

He nods, not really looking at me. Up close, I notice little details I haven't before-the faint shadows under his eyes, like he doesn't sleep much, the way his fingers tap idly against the counter.

I hand him his change, and as always, he takes it without a word.

And then he's gone.

I watch as he pushes open the door, stepping out into the early evening light. He doesn't look back. He never does.

I should forget about him the second he leaves. He's just another customer, just another small detail in the endless loop of my shift.

But as I turn to scan the next item, I catch myself thinking:

Does he even like cherry?

~~~~~

After my shift, I head straight to campus for my night class.

It's a literature course-one of the few I actually enjoy-though by this point in the semester, it's starting to drag. Tonight, we're discussing something about unreliable narrators, but my brain is fried from work, and I'm barely following along.

I take notes anyway, even though I know I'll have to reread everything later.

The class lets out just after nine, and by the time I get home, I'm exhausted. My apartment is small but comfortable-shared with my best friend, Rachel, who's already curled up on the couch with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn.

"How was work?" she asks, tossing a piece in the air and catching it in her mouth.

"Same as always," I say, dropping my bag by the door.

"Any dramatic customer fights? Mysterious product spills? Secret romances in the produce section?"

"No, no, and definitely not." I grab a handful of popcorn and collapse onto the couch beside her. "Though I think I've officially memorized someone's grocery habit."

Rachel perks up. "Ooh, tell me."

I hesitate for half a second before saying, "There's this guy who comes in every day and buys the same thing. A cherry lollipop."

She blinks. "That's it?"

"That's it."

She considers this, then grins. "Obviously, he's in love with you."

I roll my eyes. "Obviously."

"No, but seriously, that's weird, right? Who buys a single lollipop every day?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But now I can't stop noticing it."

Rachel hums, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Find out what?"

She smirks. "If he actually likes cherry."

I shake my head, laughing, but as I get up to grab a glass of water, I realize the thought is already stuck in my head.

Maybe I will ask.

Not because I care. Just because... well.

Okay, maybe I care a little.