“Clean it up?” she snapped. “Clean it up? You shouldn’t even have this job!”
Henry flinched.
Like she’d thrown something at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was stocking. And the cart—”
“I don’t care about the cart!”
“I was just trying to—”
“I asked you for one bottle,” the woman said. Loud. Louder than she needed to be. “One bottle of cranberry juice. From the cart. Because the shelf was empty. How hard can that be?”
She rolled her eyes. Dramatically. At nobody. At the ceiling.
“Bruuuh,” she said.
Henry kept apologizing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m really sorry. I’ll get you a new one. From the back. I’ll get a mop. I’m sorry.”
He was saying it over and over. Faster and faster. Like if he said it enough times, she’d stop.
She didn’t stop.
