Late one night in the citys supermarket, Irène sat behind the register, tears welling in her eyes, drained by exhaustion, injustice and loneliness. A sleepless night had taken its toll. Across the wall, her notorious drunk neighbor Jacques was again causing a ruckus with his drinking pals, and even the police could no longer quiet him.
She wiped her cheeks, glanced around, and a stylishly dressed young man approached her till. For the past month this tall, darkhaired regular had come to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. Probably a loner, she thought, someone will be lucky enough to snag a cutie like that.
The patron, pizza in hand, smiled and slid a fiftyeuro note across the counter, 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. Irène, 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 produced a fresh fiftyeuro note. Thatll keep the party going till dawn, Irène thought, irritated.
Jacques, did you rob someone? she asked, his mischievous eyes flickering. Why would I steal?
Out of habit she examined the bill in the light, feeling it with her fingertips, then stopped. Wait, Jacques, somethings off we need to check it. She fed the note into the detector and whispered, Where did you get this? Its counterfeit!
Jacques froze, like a passport photo, gripping the bottles to his chest, recalling a forgotten prayer. Suddenly he set the alcohol down on the counter. Check these too, he said, offering two more fiftyeuro notes. Ill have to alert 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 drunk pleaded.
Irène tasted the fear, ready to confess her joke: the notes were real. But the neighbor, pocketing fifteen thousand euros, rushed to the trash to destroy evidence. Jacques tore the bills apart with satisfaction and left.
Irène was taken aback. What had she done? Yet, she felt he deserved it.
Excuse me, said the familiar customer later. I bought a pizza earlier
I remember, Irène replied warily, no change.
Its not that I lost my wallet when I got into my car. Such a scatterbrain.
Was there a lot of money? she asked, thinking of Jacques.
It isnt the cash, never mind. I quickly wrote an important phone number on a bill. If someone finds it, give them the money but copy the number for me. Heres my card.
Alright, Irène agreed.
Her mood stayed sour. Throughout the rest of her shift she pondered how to help the pizza lover. Finally she grabbed a bag and hurried to the trash bin to empty its contents.
At home, wearing gloves, she sifted through the torn pieces, cursing herself for the foolish prank.
And he, such a scatterbrain probably a womans number, Irène mused, tears still burning. She found the number on two fragments.
How to give it to him? I cant call from my phone; he might call back. Should I mention the fake notes? she wondered.
She pulled out a business card: Alexandre Laurent, with both work and personal numbers. She could call from another line, or just text. Maybe ask the elderly neighbor for her phone? What if Alexandre called back and didnt understand, remembering that Irène had been there? He might think she, the cashier, kept the money but 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 toward the locker room.
Soon a rotund figure emerged from the building, cloaked in a fur coat, two scarves, a down muffler and a cap. One could sketch a police portrait of this ridiculous creature. The figure slipped away, clouding the trail, moving stealthily there it was, a nondescript Asian silhouette, seemingly perfect for her plan.
Approaching the concierge, Irène whispered, I need to call, my batterys dead. She showed five euros. He silently handed her his phone. Irène immediately sent the mysterious womans number to Alexandre. Relieved, she thanked him cautiously and returned home.
Alexandre lay awake, not thinking of money but replaying a daytime encounter. He recalled walking to a café when someone shouted, Hey, Alex! In a crowded bus he saw his old friend Victor after five years. Im heading to the station. Call me! Victor shouted digits. Forgetting his phone at work, Alexandre had scribbled the number on a bill, hoping to call Victor later in his bachelor life. Things hadnt gone as planned.
To distract himself, he focused on a pleasant subject: the cashier Irène, who had occupied his thoughts for a month. He remembered her wavy hair, clear skyblue eyes, warm smile He realized he needed more connection; loneliness was weighing on him.
A notification buzzed. Only a number displayed. It was Victors! Tomorrow he would call. If the number was recovered, the money was too. He had to thank the sender.
Hello. Thank you very much. Keep the money, its a gift.
A slightly foreign male voice replied, Gift? I dont understand. Im the concierge. Then the line clicked.
Whoever had sent it didnt matter. Tomorrow he would tell Irène the news. She had seemed so sad yesterday, full of compassion.
Now with a reason to speak to Irène, Alexandre fell asleep smiling.
Irène spent most of the night crying, lamenting her disordered life while feeling sorry for poor Jacques and the unreachable Alexandre, that clumsy dreamer.
The next evening, a cheerful Alexandre came to 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 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! Irène panicked, grabbed her bag, and chased after him.
Alexandre, wait!!!
Customers watched, curious, as the young woman caught up, speaking hurriedly, then opened her bag and extended her hand.
Alexandre stared at two pieces of a red bill with Victors number written on them
A moment later, laughter rang from their side.
Weeks later, the Laurent family celebrated their wedding, with Irène alternating between laughing and tearful joy. Even Jacques joined the festivities.
Late Night at the Supermarket: An After-Hours Adventure
