“Excuse me, ma’am?” a teenager invades my deep thoughts as I stand stewing over what brand of canned black beans will provide the best nutritional bang for the buck. Organic or not?
I glance in his direction. He’s clad in all-black, his shoulders are slumped, and his hands are stuffed deeply in his pockets.
“Yes?” I say.
“Do you have a quarter to spare?” He takes one of his hands out and opens it wide. I notice the deep grooves in his palm. His hand looks like it belongs to an old man.
What I want to say is, “No. I don’t have a quarter to spare. I don’t have anything left to spare. I’m tired. I’ve just gotten over having a fever, my house has more bacterial and viral colonies than a Petri dish, and this grocery store visit is my first solo hurrah in a long, long time. So please just leave me alone, and go find some other housewife to nickel and dime.”
Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me …
And so I take a deep breath as I dig through my change purse. I don’t have a quarter, but I do manage to come up with two dimes and a nickel amidst a treasure trove of pennies. I drop the change into his open palm. He closes it quickly.
“Thanks,” he says, waving his furled fist at me.
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