Late Night at the Supermarket: A Strange Encounter After Hours

Late at night in the supermarket.

One evening, well past closing time at the local Tesco, Emily sat at the checkout, tears welling in her eyes, exhausted from the long shift, the unfairness of it all, and the crushing loneliness. The sleepless night before hadnt helped. Her neighbour, old Davea notorious drunkhad been at it again, shouting and banging about with his mates on the other side of the wall. Even the coppers couldnt shut him up this time.

Emily wiped her eyes and glanced around. A tall, handsome bloke in a smart coat was heading her way. For the past month, this dark-haired regular had come to her till to pay for his microwave pizza and apple juice. “*Probably a loner,*” she thought. “*Some girls gonna be lucky with a bloke like that.*”

The customer handed her a fifty-pound note but hesitated. “*Hang on, Ill grab some changedont want to mess up your float.*” He paid, gave her a quick smile, and left.

An hour till closing. The last few shoppers trudged through, tossing groceries into their trolleys without enthusiasm. Emily yawned, silently cursing Davewho, of course, chose that exact moment to stumble in, dishevelled and bruised, clutching two bottles of fancy vodka. Grinning like a fool, he slapped down a crisp fifty. “*Great, another all-nighter,*” she thought bitterly.

“*Dave, did you mug someone for this?*” His bloodshot eyes darted between bruises. “*Whyd I nick it?*”

Out of habit, Emily held the note up to the light, ran her fingers over itthen froze. “*Hold on. Somethings off*” She fed it into the counterfeit detector. “*Whered you get this? Its fake!*”

Dave went stiff as a board, clutching the vodka like it was a life raft. Suddenly, he slammed the bottles down. “*Check these too,*” he blurted, shoving two more fifties at her. “*Fake as well. Ive got to call the police.*”

“*Emily, I swear, I found em outside! Some bloke dropped his walletI just took the cash! Dont report me!*” he begged.

She savoured his panic, ready to admit it was a jokethe notes were real. But Dave, convinced hed just destroyed fifteen grands worth of evidence, bolted for the bin outside and tore them up with relish before staggering off.

Emily blinked. What had she just done? Well he deserved it.

“*Excuse me,*” came a familiar voice. The pizza guy was back. “*I bought something earlier*”
“*I remember,*” she said warily. “*No change.*”
“*No, its not that. I lost my wallet on the way to my car. Proper daft of me.*”
“*Was there much in it?*” she asked, thinking of Dave.
“*Money doesnt matter. But Id scribbled an important phone number on a note. If anyone finds it, they can keep the cashjust get me that number. Heres my card.*”
“*Right,*” she nodded.

For the rest of her shift, Emily stewed. How could she help him? Finally, she grabbed a bin bag and sprinted outside, dumping the contents onto the pavement.

Back home, gloved hands sifting through torn bits of fifty-pound notes, she cursed her stupid prank.
“*And himwhat a scatterbrain. Probably some girls number,*” she thought bitterly, eyes stinging. She pieced together the digits from two scraps.

But how to tell him? She couldnt call from her own phonehed have her number. What if he thought shed nicked the cash? She checked his business card: *Alexander Turner*, with work and mobile numbers. Maybe she could borrow a phone? The elderly neighbours? But what if Alexander called back and the old dear babbled something about “*that checkout girl*”?

Then it hit her: the building concierge. Hed never recognise her voice. Perfect.

Minutes later, a muffled figure waddled outswathed in coats, scarves, even a ridiculous fluffy hatlooking like a failed spy. She beelined for a corner phone box, spotting the bored concierge.

“*Need to make a call. Batterys dead,*” she mumbled, flashing a fiver. He handed over his phone. She fired off the number to Alexander, muttered thanks, and fled.

Alexander couldnt sleep. He wasnt fussed about the moneyjust the number. That afternoon, hed bumped into his old mate Ben after five years. “*Call me!*” Ben had yelled from a packed bus, rattling off digits. No pen? Alexander had scribbled them on a fifty. Now, thanks to some mystery texter, he had them back.

He tapped out a reply: “*Thanks. Keep the cashconsider it a gift.*”
A gruff voice answered: “*GIFT?! Me no understand. Im concierge.*” Click.

No matter. Tomorrow, hed tell Emily. Shed seemed so down earlier

The next evening, Alexander bounced into Tesco. “*Emily! Brilliant newssomeone sent the number! I reached my mate!*” Then he paused. “*Wait howd they get my number? I only gave my card to you.*”

Emily went pale.

“*It was you? You found the money and*”

Before she could speak, he turned on his heel.

“*He thinks I stole it!*” Panicking, she grabbed her bag and chased him outside. “*Alexander, wait!!!*”

Shoppers gawked as she caught up, babbling, then yanked two shredded fifty scraps from her bag.

Alexander staredthen burst out laughing.

A few weeks later, the Turners threw a wedding where Emily alternated between giggles and happy tears. Even Dave rocked up for the free booze.