Hands. Pins. A card reader that fails because of course. A man I will not name stands in the line with the face of someone who almost bought a reason to speak to me. He buys nothing. I am grateful and I am not. A woman asks what the spiral means. I shrug. If I start explaining marker-pen I will become a priest, and priests do not pack down a trestle. I sign a sleeve and look at the next sleeve. A woman asks what the spiral means. Gratitude without pastoral care. That is the job until someone turns the job into a list of emails. I can already feel the list arriving, like rain you smell before it hits the letterbox. A woman asks what the spiral means.
