Late one night at the city supermarket, Irene stood at the checkout, eyes brimming with tears, drained by fatigue, injustice and loneliness. The sleepless night had taken its toll. Her neighbor Jacques, a notorious drunk, was again causing a racket on the other side of the wall with his drinking buddies, and even the police could no longer calm him.
Scanning her surroundings, Irene wiped away her tears. A handsome young man in a stylish coat approached her register. For the past month, the tall brown-haired regular had come to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. Probably a loner, she thought. Someone will be lucky to have such a cutie.
He smiled, held out a fiftyeuro note while clutching his pizza, then hesitated. Ill get change so I dont bother you, he said, paid, and left.
An hour remained before the store closed. The few lingering shoppers pushed their carts listlessly. Irene, yawning despite herself, muttered a silent curse at Jacques, who staggered in at that moment, bruised and clutching two bottles of premium vodka. With a mocking grin he placed a fresh fiftyeuro bill on the counter. Thatll fund a party till dawn, Irene thought, irritated.
Jacques, did you rob someone? she asked. His mischievous eyes flickered between the bruises. Why would I steal?
Irene, out of habit, examined the note under the light, running her fingers over it. Suddenly she said, Wait, Jacques, somethings off we need to check this. She fed the bill into the detector and whispered, Where did you get this? Its counterfeit!
Jacques froze like a passport photo, gripping the bottles tight, recalling a forgotten prayer. He hurriedly set the alcohol on the counter. Check these too, he urged, handing over two more fiftyeuro notes. I have to warn the police!
I swear, I found them in front of the shop. Someone dropped a wallet and I picked up the cash. Dont report me, the drunk pleaded.
The cashier relished the tension, ready to reveal that the notes were genuine. Yet the neighbor, pocketing fifteen thousand euros, rushed to the trash to destroy evidence. Jacques tore the bills apart with satisfaction and fled.
Irene was taken aback. What had she done? Then she thought, he deserved it.
Excuse me, said the familiar customer. I bought a pizza earlier
I remember, Irene replied warily, without change.
But thats not it I lost my wallet getting into my car. What a scatterbrain.
Was there a lot of money in it? Irene asked, thinking of Jacques.
Its not about the cash, never mind. I scribbled an important phone number on a bill in a hurry. If someone finds it, give them the money but copy the number for me. Heres my card.
Alright, Irene agreed.
Irenes mood remained sour. Until her shift ended, she pondered how to help the pizza lover. Finally she grabbed a bag and sprinted to the trash can to empty its contents.
Back home, wearing gloves, she sifted through the torn bill fragments, cursing herself for the foolish prank.
And him, such a scatterbrain probably the number of a woman, she mused, tears welling. The number appeared on two pieces.
How do I give it to him? I cant call from my phone; he might call back. What should I say? Talk about the fake notes?
She pulled out a business card: Alexandre Laurent, with both work and personal numbers. She needed to call from a different line, or just text. Perhaps ask the old neighbor for her phone? What if Alexandre called back and didnt understand, but remembered Irene had been there? Would he think she, the cashier, had found the money, kept it, yet still sent the number?
Suddenly she realized she could ask the concierge for a phone, unlikely to be recognized later. If he succeeded better make sure he couldnt. Irene headed toward the locker room.
Soon a rotund figure emerged from the building, wrapped in a fur coat, two scarves, a down shawl and a cap. Someone could try drawing a sketch of that ridiculous creature. The silhouette vanished, obscuring the trail, blending into the shadows there, at the corner, a discreet figurea fairly average Asian man, seemingly perfect for her plan.
Approaching the concierge, Irene whispered, I need to call, my batterys dead. She handed over five euros. The concierge silently passed her his phone. Irene immediately sent the mysterious womans number to Alexandre. Relieved, she thanked him cautiously and went home.
Alexandre lay awake. He wasnt thinking of money but replaying a daytime encounter: heading to a café, he heard, Hey, Alex! through the open bus door and saw his friend Victor, whom he hadnt seen in five years. Im going to the station. Call me! Victor shouted numbers. Forgetting his phone at the office, Alexandre wrote the number on a bill, already looking forward to calling Victor in his solitary retirement. Things hadnt gone as planned.
To distract himself, he focused on a pleasant subject. The cashier Irene had occupied his thoughts for a month. He recalled her wavy hair, skyblue eyes, warm smile He needed to know himself better. Loneliness was weighing him down.
Then a message notification appeared. Only a number displayed. Whose was it? It was Victors! He had to call tomorrow. If the number was recovered, the money would be too. Now he had to thank the sender.
Hello. Thank you very much. Keep the money; its a gift.
A slightly foreign male voice answered, GIFT? I dont understand. Im the concierge. Then the line cut.
It didnt matter who had sent it. Tomorrow hed share the news with Irene. She had seemed so sad yesterday, full of compassion.
With a newfound reason to talk to Irene, Alexandre fell asleep smiling.
Irene spent most of the night crying, lamenting her chaotic life, feeling sorry for poor Jacques and the unattainable Alexandre, the scatterbrain.
The next evening, a cheerful Alexandre approached the register. Irene, everythings fine. Someone sent me the lost number, I managed to reach my friend he began, then stopped. But wait how did they get my number? I only gave my card to you.
Irene stayed silent, unable to speak.
So you were the one who found the money and sent the number?
Without waiting for an answer, Alexandre hurried toward the exit.
Everything! He thinks Im a thief. Its over! Irene thought, panicking, grabbing her bag and chasing after him.
Alexandre, wait!!!
Customers watched curiously as the young woman caught up, speaking rapidly, then opened her bag and extended her hand.
Alexandre stared at two pieces of a red bill, Victors number written on them
A few moments later, laughter rang from their side.
Weeks later, the Laurents celebrated their wedding, with Irene alternating between laughter and tears of joy. Even Jacques joined the festivities.
