The feeling arises within me as I take the jeans from his hands — him, you know, the customer, the consumer, the anointed one to whose spending I give thanks. Not because I am thankful, no! But because he feeds the machine — the feeling grips me tightly and all of a sudden:
“I’ll put those in a change room for you” — how pitiful the gesture is. Of course He is capable of doing so himself. Of course! I feel myself sink into myself.
A shame falls over me like a cloud’s shadow passing over the ground. A shame so powerful it ought not to be the result of this gesture alone. A single instance of shame that represents the whole shame of my existence. Self pity like honey. Alone in the dank mucus of my soul. At least it’s warm.
I walk to the counter. I feel sick. Hungry too. I want to vomit. At least then they’d let me home.