Sally, From The Tills

In the glaring fluorescent lights of of aisle three, between the tins of beans and the packets of rice, there’s this sort of quiet that settles. It’s like the world pauses for a breath, and in that stillness, I find myself thinking about her. Sally. It’s a simple name, isn’t it? But there’s something about the way it sounds when I whisper it under my breath, amidst the shuffle of products and the beep of scanners, that feels like it’s filled with unsaid things, with stories only I’m privy to.

She’s over there now, on till four, the one closest to the exit. It’s always the busiest, but she handles it with this grace, you know? Like she’s dancing between the barcodes and the bags. I watch how she smiles at the customers, and every time, I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to have that smile directed at me, just once.

I know it sounds daft, me, a shelf stacker, harbouring these secret feelings for the girl on the tills. But when you spend your days surrounded by the mundane, by rows of products that never change, you start finding the extraordinary in the people around you. And Sally, well, she’s like the burst of colour in my otherwise grey day.

We talk, sometimes, when the manager isn’t looking and the queues die down. About normal stuff: the weather, the latest offers, the state of the staff room fridge. And in those moments, I’m not just the bloke restocking the soups or checking for expired yogurts; I’m someone she’s laughing with, sharing a part of her day with. It feels like being let in on a secret, like I’m suddenly more than what my name badge says.

But as quickly as those moments come, they vanish. Reality rushes back in with the next customer, the next shift, the next delivery. And I’m left stacking shelves again, holding onto the echoes of our conversations, replaying them in my head, imagining different endings, braver confessions.

It’s not like I haven’t thought about telling her, about stepping out from behind these aisles and saying what’s been simmering in me since the day she started. But what then? What if she doesn’t see me the way I see her? What if I’m just the background noise to her daily routine, as forgettable as the awful inshore music we pretend not to hear?

So, I keep quiet, keep stacking, keep stealing glances when I think no one’s looking. Because in a world where everything has a price tag, these feelings, this hope, it’s mine. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now. To be here, in the quiet corners of a supermarket, secretly in love with Sally from the tills.