By Jeffrey-Michael Kane

This week’s Flash Friday features a story selected from Litro’s The Odds Are In flash fiction competition. “Perishables” unfolds at the edge of something ordinary — a supermarket counter, a small return and holds its focus there long enough for the stakes to sharpen.

At 6:12 p.m. the grocery store is bright in the way that makes every face look slightly surprised. The doors breathe open and closed. A child cries in aisle seven, not from pain, from insistence. Over the speakers a woman says something about savings and says it twice.

I am in line at customer service because I have a bag of strawberries that went soft in less than twenty-four hours. They are not ruined. They are just wrong. I have the receipt in my pocket, folded small.

Ahead of me, a woman holds a gallon of milk against her hip and a carton of eggs in the crook of her arm. The eggs are cracked. Not shattered, just cracked along the top row, as if someone set them down too hard and then pretended they hadn’t. She keeps tilting the carton to check. She does it the way you check something you already know is broken.

Behind her is a boy. Nine or ten. No cart. No adult. He is holding a rotisserie chicken in the clear plastic dome, the kind that sweats. The chicken is still warm. He holds it with both hands, arms tight, careful.

When the woman reaches the counter, she slides the milk and eggs forward. The clerk scans them, frowning at the screen.

“You need your receipt for returns,” the clerk says. He is young. He wears a name tag and a headset. His voice is neutral in the way people are trained to be neutral when rules are about to be enforced.

“I have my card,” the woman says. “You can look it up.”

The clerk shakes his head. “For perishables we need the receipt.”

“It’s milk,” she says. “I bought it this morning. Look at the date.”

“I understand,” he says. “Policy.”

The boy with the chicken shifts his weight. The dome creaks in his hands.

“Fine,” the woman says, and pushes the milk and eggs back toward herself. The eggs make a soft clacking sound against the counter edge. She steps out of line but does not leave the store. She stands to the side, staring at the cracked eggs.

The boy steps up.

He sets the chicken on the counter. The plastic dome fogs and clears.

“That’ll be $8.99,” the clerk says.

The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled wad of bills. He smooths them on the counter with both palms. Ones and a five. He counts without moving his lips.

He comes up short. Not by much. A dollar, maybe two.

“I thought it was seven,” he says.

“It was on special,” the clerk says, and then checks the screen. “Was on special.”

The boy nods. He reaches in his pocket again and finds coins. He adds them in a small pile: quarters, dimes, pennies that leave a faint smell on his fingers.

The pile is still short.

He slides the money forward anyway. Not as payment. As proof he tried.

“Do you have another card?” the clerk asks quietly.

The boy shakes his head. “My mom gave me this,” he says. He lifts the bills slightly, then sets them down.

The clerk looks at the chicken. He looks at the boy. “Sorry,” he says. He slides the chicken back across the counter. The dome squeaks.

The boy does not take it at first. His hands stay flat on the counter edge.

Then he does. He pulls the chicken back to his chest.

He turns as if to leave, and the woman with the cracked eggs is still standing to the side. She watches him. He does not see her. He is looking at the automatic doors.

The woman steps forward.

“Hey,” she says, gently. “Sweetheart.”

The boy stops. He looks at her.

“How much are you short?” she asks.

He does not answer. His eyes flick to the chicken, then back to her face.

“I can…” she begins.

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. He grips the dome tighter.

The woman nods. She looks down at the eggs in her arm. The top row is cracked cleanly, each fissure a thin white line.

Then she does something small and wrong.

She walks back to the counter.

She sets the carton of eggs down and slides it forward. The crack lines face up.

“I’d like to exchange these,” she says. Her voice is steady now. It has chosen.

“Receipt?” the clerk asks.

“No,” she says.

He opens his mouth.

“Please,” she says.

The clerk exhales. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a blank exchange slip. He writes something quickly, tears off the top sheet, and slides it to her.

“One time,” he says.

“Thank you,” she says.

He takes the eggs and sets them aside. He reaches behind him for a replacement carton. Fresh. Unbroken. He places it on the counter.

The woman does not take it.

Instead she picks up the exchange slip, turns, and holds it out to the boy.

“It’s yours,” she says.

The boy stares at the paper.

“I don’t…” he starts.

“You do,” the woman says, and her voice is still gentle, but there is something firm under it. “Take it.”

The clerk has turned back to his screen.

The boy takes the slip. He steps to the counter and slides it forward. The clerk scans it without comment. Beep. He rings the chicken through as if it has always been paid for.

The boy’s money remains on the counter, smoothed flat. The clerk does not take it.

The boy looks at the bills. Then at the chicken. Then at the woman.

The woman has picked up the new carton of eggs and is holding it against her hip. She is looking past him now, toward the doors.

The boy picks up his money. He shoves it back into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he says.

The woman nods once.

He walks out. The automatic doors open. The dusk beyond is blue-gray. The chicken dome reflects the store lights as he goes.

When he is gone, the woman sets the milk on the counter.

“I don’t need to return the milk,” she says. “It’s fine.”

The clerk does not smile. He nods.

She takes the eggs. She takes the milk. She steps away from the counter.

It is my turn.

I put the strawberries on the counter. They leave a wet mark.

“I bought these yesterday,” I say. “They went soft.”

The clerk looks at them, then at me.

“Receipt?” he asks.

I take the folded paper from my pocket and set it down.

He scans it. Beep.

He slides a store credit card toward me.

I take it.

The line moves.

class contemporary fiction everyday life flash fiction human pressure Litro retail short story