“Keep the change,” I say.
The cashier opens an app on her phone and transfers 44 cents to an investment account.
“Do you always do that? I ask.
“I’m a personal finance blogger. So yeah, exponential interest and all that.”
“What’s your blog called?”
“Is that your name?”
“You’re going to google me as soon as you leave this place.”
“I’m not a creep.”
“I’ll buy you a drink before I google you.”
“You should invest that drink money instead. I’m pretty sure it’ll turn out better for you.”
“I guess I’ll never get to read your blog then.”
“I guess not.”
Turning to leave, I realize there is a line forming behind me. Half a dozen people had just witnessed my rejection. Why was I flirting with the cashier? Maybe I was a creep. Six weeks into the divorce negotiations and I am a complete mess. Time to go back to the studio apartment and bury my self-hatred in a canister of cheese puffs. What a sad sad boy I have become.