Late one night, inside the towns supermarket, Irène sat at the checkout, tears brimming in her eyes, drained by exhaustion, injustice, and loneliness. The sleepless night had taken its toll. Across the wall, her notorious drunk neighbor Jacques was again making a ruckus with his bingedrinking friends. Even the police could no longer quiet him.
Glancing around, Irène wiped away her tears. A handsome young man in a stylish coat approached her register. For the past month this tall brunette had been coming to her counter to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. Probably a loner, she thought. Someone will be lucky to land a guy like that.
The customer, pizza in hand, smiled at her and handed over a fiftyeuro note, then hesitated. Ill get change so I dont trouble you, he said, paid for his purchase, and left.
An hour remained before the store closed. The few remaining shoppers tossed their groceries into carts without much enthusiasm. Irène, yawning despite herself, muttered a silent curse at Jacques, who staggered in at that very moment, bruised and clutching two bottles of luxury vodka. He flashed a mocking grin and placed a fresh fiftyeuro note on the counter. Thatll keep the party going till morning, Irène thought, irritated.
Jacques, did you rob anyone? she asked. His mischievous eyes flickered between the bruises. Why would I steal?
Out of habit, Irène inspected the bill under the light, ran her fingers over it, then paused. 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, clutching the bottles to his chest, recalling a forgotten prayer. Suddenly he shoved the alcohol onto the counter. Check these too, he said, hopeful, sliding two more fiftyeuro notes across. 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.
The cashier relished the tension, ready to reveal her prank: the notes were genuine. Yet the neighbor, pocketing fifteen thousand euros, hurried to the trash bin to destroy the evidence. Jacques tore the bills apart with satisfaction and left.
Irène was taken aback. What had she done? Then again, hed earned it.
Excuse me, said a familiar customer. I bought a pizza earlier
I remember, Irène replied warily, without change.
But thats not it I lost my wallet when I got into my car. What an absentminded thing.
Was there a lot of money? Irène asked, thinking of Jacques.
Its not about the cash, never mind. I scribbled an important phone number on a bill in a hurry. If anyone finds it, give them the money but copy the number for me. Heres my card.
Alright, Irène agreed.
Her mood stayed sour. Until the end of her shift she pondered how to help the pizzalover. Finally she grabbed a bag and rushed to the trash bin to empty its contents.
Back home, wearing gloves, she rummaged through the torn pieces, cursing the foolish prank.
And him, such an airhead probably a womans number, Irène mused, tears still burning. The number appeared on two fragments.
But how to 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 another line, or just text. Maybe ask the old neighbor for her phone? If Alexandre called back and didnt understand, would he think Irène, the cashier, had found the cash and kept it yet still sent the number?
Suddenly she realized she could ask the concierge for the phone, knowing he wouldnt later recognize her. If he succeeded she might as well prevent it. Irène headed toward the cloakroom.
Soon a plump figure emerged from the building, wrapped in a coat, a fur coat, two scarves, a down muffler, and a cap. Someone could try to sketch this ridiculous creature. The silhouette moved away, obscuring the trail, watching spotcheck there it was, in the corner, an average Asianlooking person, 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 instantly sent Alexandre the mysterious womans number. Relieved, she thanked him cautiously and returned home.
Alexandre lay awake. Money didnt occupy his thoughts; instead he recalled a daytime encounter. While heading to a café, he heard, Hey, Alex! Through the open door of a packed bus he spotted his friend Victor, whom he hadnt seen in five years. Im going to the station. Call me back! Victor shouted a string of digits. Forgetting his phone at the office, Alexandre wrote the number on a bill, already looking forward to calling Victor in his single life. But things hadnt gone as planned.
To distract himself, he focused on a pleasant subject: the cashier Irène, who had occupied his mind for a month. He remembered her wavy hair, skyblue eyes, welcoming smile He felt it was time to know her better. Loneliness was beginning to weigh on him.
A notification pinged. Only a number displayed. Whose was it? Then he realized: Victors! He had to call tomorrow. If the number was recovered, the money would be too. Now he needed to thank the sender.
Hello. Thank you very much. Keep the money; its a gift.
A slightly foreign male voice replied, GIFT? Im the concierge. Then the line dropped.
Whoever had sent it didnt matter. Tomorrow he would tell Irène the news. She had seemed so sad yesterday; she deserved empathy.
With the notion that he now had a reason to talk to Irène, Alexandre fell asleep smiling.
Irène spent most of the night sobbing, lamenting her chaotic life while feeling sorry for poor Jacques and the unreachable Alexandre, the scatterbrain.
The next evening, a cheerful Alexandre approached the register. Irène, everythings fine. Someone sent me the lost number, I managed to reach my friend he began, then stopped midsentence. 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.
Its all over! He thinks Im a thief. This is the end! Irène thought, panicking, grabbing her bag and chasing after him.
Alexandre, wait!!!
Customers watched, curious, as the young woman caught up, speaking quickly, then opened her bag and extended her hand.
Alexandre stared at two pieces of a red bill, Victors number scrawled on them
A moment later, laughter echoed from their side.
Weeks later, the Laurent family celebrated their wedding, with Irène alternating between laughter and tears of joy. Even Jacques joined the festivities.
Late Night at the Supermarket: A Nocturnal Adventure
