Liverwurst
City Étude
The line at the sausage department reaches a girl of about twenty: skinny, with a thin ponytail, in a worn jacket and shabby boots. Next in line is a large, heavy-built man in a long coat and a corduroy cap.
“A CEO,” the girl decides.
“A student,” the man decides.
The saleswoman appears, adjusts her snow-white apron, and addresses the customers.
“What would you like?” she asks, slipping her hands into transparent rubber gloves.
“Three hundred grams of liverwurst, please,” the girl says, pointing to a corner of the brightly lit counter.
There in the corner lies a greyish, rather suspicious package of the cheapest liverwurst. It looks like it’s been sitting there for a while and is approaching its expiration date.
“This is inedible,” the man thinks, “even if it costs 12 euros per kilogram. Unless she buys it for a dog.”
The saleswoman grabs a knife, a sausage, cuts off the required piece, weighs it, wraps it in paper, hands over the finished package.
“36 euros, please,” the saleswoman says, and looks at the girl.
The girl looks at the saleswoman. Her thin ponytail trembles, sways back and forth, then freezes.
“36 euros?” the girl whispers.
“36 euros?” the man cries out in surprise. “How much liverwurst did you weigh for her? Three kilograms?!”
The saleswoman blinks, winces, and gasps:
“Oh, sorry! 3.6 euros!”
An exhale. Α click of the wallet. Three one-euro coins, three 20-cent coins. The man notices the last 5-euro bill in the main compartment of the wallet.
“Do you need a bag? It’s only 50 cents.”
“No, no, thank you.”
The girl opens her purse, takes out a clean sheet of A4 paper, carefully wraps three hundred grams of liverwurst in a second layer of paper, carefully puts it in her purse and leaves.
The man in a corduroy cap and the saleswoman in a snow-white apron watch her go.
The man will regret all day long that he didn’t give her ten euros. Just like that, without any explanation. Then he’ll forget.
You have created very nice environment. For a while i was there looking at them.
Oh—this one snuck up on me. I kept thinking “haha, sausage line,” and then suddenly I’m stuck on the A4 paper like it’s a magic trick she’s done a hundred times. That tiny pause at “36 euros” felt huge~
And the regret part? So human it hurts. The kind of thought that taps you on the shoulder later and goes “hey, remember me.” City moment, blink and it’s gone, but it stays.