he shuffled up to the counter
and said he had a needle
filled with his own blood
and he was going to stab me with it
if I didn’t open the till
and give him everything we had.

he didn’t look well.
he was sweating so bad
the scabs were sliding around on his face.

but I was hungover:

nothing happens when you die
because you’re not special, I said.
this is your one brief shot at existence
and you’ve ruined it.

like I say, I was hungover.

he went out crying
and the next customer came forward.
huge woman who wanted to know the refund policy
before she bought anything.
when I explained it to her
she nodded solemnly, made a tutting sound
and finally said:
okay. I’ll see if you’ve got anything I want to buy.
but if I find something, will I have to queue up again
like
everyone
else?