Late one night at the towns supermarket, Irène sat behind the checkout, tears brimming and exhaustion weighing her downfatigue, injustice, and loneliness all gnawing at her. A sleepless night had left its mark. Across the wall, her notorious drunk neighbor Jacques was still causing a ruckus with his drinking buddies, and even the police could no longer keep him quiet.
Scanning the area, Irène wiped her eyes. A stylish young man in a trendy coat approached her register. For the past month hed been coming to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. Probably a loner, she thought. Someone lucky will get a chance with a guy that handsome.
He placed his pizza on the counter, smiled, and reached for a fiftyeuro notebut then hesitated. Ill get change so I dont trouble you. He settled his bill and left.
An hour remained before the store closed. The few shoppers pushed their carts listlessly. Irène, yawning despite herself, muttered a silent curse at Jacques, who burst in at that moment, disheveled and bruised, two bottles of premium vodka in hand. He flashed a mocking grin and handed her a crisp fiftyeuro note. Thatll fund a party till dawn, Irène thought, irritated.
Jacques, did you rob anyone? she asked, her eyes flashing. Why would I steal?
Out of habit, Irène examined the bill under the light, running her fingers over it, then stopped. Wait, somethings off we need to check. She fed the note into the counterfeit detector and whispered, Where did you get this? Its fake!
Jacques froze like a passport photo, clutching the bottles to his chest, recalling a forgotten prayer. He quickly set the liquor on the counter. Check these too, he said, offering two more fresh 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 turn me in the drunken man pleaded.
Irène relished the tension, ready to reveal her joke: the bills were genuine. Yet the neighbor, pocketing fifteen thousand euros, rushed to the trash to destroy evidence. Jacques tore the notes apart with satisfaction and left.
Irène was taken aback. What had she done? Then she thought, he deserved it.
Excuse me, the familiar customer said. I bought a pizza earlier
I remember, Irène replied warily, without change.
It wasnt that I lost my wallet when I got into my car. How careless of me.
Was there a lot of money? Irène asked, thinking of Jacques.
Its not the cash, never mind. I scribbled an important phone number on a note in a hurry. If someone finds it, give them the money but copy the number for me. Heres my card.
Alright, Irène agreed.
Her mood remained sour. Until her shift ended, she mulled over how to help the pizza lover. Finally she grabbed a bag and hurried to the trash to empty it.
Back home, wearing gloves, she sifted through the torn bill fragments, cursing herself for the foolish prank.
His mind is so scattered probably a womans number, Irène mused, tears burning. The number appeared on two pieces.
How do I give it to him? I cant call from my phone; he might call back. Should I mention the counterfeit notes?
She pulled out a business card: Alexandre Laurent, work and personal number. She needed to contact him from another line, or just text. Maybe ask the elderly neighbor for her phone? What if Alexandre called back and didnt understand, but remembered Irène had been there? Would he think she, the cashier, had kept the money yet still sent the number?
Suddenly she realized she could ask the concierge for a phone, hoping he wouldnt recognize her later. If he succeeded better make sure he couldnt. Irène headed to the locker room.
Soon a roundbodied figure emerged from the building, wrapped in a coat, fur jacket, two scarves, a feathered headband, and a cap. Imagine a sketchartist trying to capture this absurd creature. The silhouette vanished, obscuring tracks, flickering in and out there, at the corner, a discreet figurea perfectly average Asian man, ideal for her plan.
Approaching the concierge, Irène whispered, I need to call; my batterys dead. She showed five euros. He handed her his phone silently. Irène instantly sent the mysterious womans number to Alexandre. Relieved, she thanked him quietly and returned home.
Alexandre lay awake, not thinking of money but replaying a daytime encounter. He recalled heading to a café when someone shouted, Hey, Alex! Inside a crowded bus, he spotted his old friend Victor after five years apart. Im heading to the station. Call me! Victor shouted numbers. Forgetting his own phone at the office, Alexandre had written the digits on a bill, eager to call Victor later in his solitary retirement. Things hadnt gone as planned.
To distract himself, he focused on pleasant thoughts. Irène, the cashier, occupied his mind for a monthher wavy hair, clearsky eyes, welcoming smile. He felt the need to know her better; loneliness was weighing on him.
A notification buzzeda message from an unknown number. It was Victors. Tomorrow he would call. If the number was recovered, the money would be too. He needed to thank the sender.
Hello, thank you very much. Keep the money; its a gift.
A slightly foreign male voice replied, A GIFT? I dont understand. Im the concierge. Then the line dropped.
Whoever had sent it didnt matter. Tomorrow he would share the news with Irène, who had seemed so down yesterday, showing compassion.
Now with a reason to talk to Irène, Alexandre fell asleep with a smile.
Irène wept most of the night, lamenting her chaotic life, feeling sorry for poor Jacques and the unattainable Alexandre, the clumsy dreamer.
The next evening, a cheerful Alexandre approached the register. Irène, everythings fine. Someone sent me the lost number, I reached my friend he began, then stopped. But wait how did they get my number? I only gave my card to you.
Irène stayed mute, 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! Irène panicked, grabbed her bag, and chased after him.
Alexandre, wait!!!
Customers watched, curious, as the young woman caught up, spoke quickly, and opened her bag, extending her hand.
Alexandre stared at two torn pieces of a red bill with Victors number scribbled on them
A few moments later, laughter rang out from their side.
Weeks later, the Laurent family celebrated their wedding, with Irène alternating between laughter and happy tears. Even Jacques joined the festivities.
