So, I'm in the return line at Lowe's yesterday, and the cashier needs to see me ID to assure--I'm guessing--that I don't make a weekly habit of going into Lowe's with a bunch of unused sconces demanding merchandise credit. (I do.)
Uh oh, she says. What? I say, afraid I've been found out. That's a bad idea, she says. What? I say.
She holds up my license. Organ donation, she says. Terrible. My dad runs a funeral home, and he says they just cut you all up and then it's so hard to put you back together, and you're just laying there a total mess. Nobody even recognizes you. Just guts, you know, with nothing else really in there.
Uhm, thank you, I say.
Any problem with the lights? she asks. I shake my head, take my card. Well, good luck with the baby. She smiles--her teeth, an unsettling white--and points from my belly to my face, my face to my belly. You two have a fun day, she says.
Uhm, okay, will do.