No Returns

Clearing the leftover Valentine’s Day chocolates off the shelves, and changing the store merchandise, I’m glad to be back to the normal workflow. Finally, there aren't panicked customers trying to buy the perfect gift in a rush, unprepared despite the fact there is only one day in the entire year when you should tell your lover that you love them; by spending a quid or a few grand. I say it’s bullshit, but maybe that’s the reason why I am still single: I’m not exactly the romantic type, not on Valentine’s, nor on any other day of the year, always keeping at arm’s length the cheesy I-love-yous.

Funny, how I still found a lover for that one night.

⁂

Working in a sweet shop, I have the kind of job people who don’t know it like to romanticise, and I fit in like part of the furniture. With my candy floss blue hair and colourful sleeve tattoos, if I stand still enough, I can be left unnoticed in front of the gigantic glass jars of M&Ms and jelly beans, where it’s already like a rainbow has exploded. But despite the fantastic aesthetics, it is retail, and in retail, sweetness is surface deep, a fact that holds true even in a shop filled with fudge and jelly beans. Contrary to what we see in romcoms or read on fanfiction sites, a shop assistant job is not where you fall for a handsome stranger who is head over heels in love with your ugly, cheap uniform and fake smile. You don’t get to flirt and ride off into the sunset. No. Instead, it is where entitled problem customers drive you up the wall and even if you adore the idea of your job, you start to hate it. It’s where you often find yourself wanting to yank off your apron, and throw it in a someone’s face. It’s where you get bored, watching stressed people trying to save their relationships by paying ridiculous amounts for a heart shaped box of chocolates. It is where–

‘I’d like to return these.’

I roll my eyes and mouth a curse with my back to the voice. Thinking of the devil. Of course, this happens when I am just about to close the store, and after a busy day of getting rushed off my feet to satisfy every customer’s wishes, I don’t appreciate it. There is no time of day I ever would, actually, as it is the most dreaded sentence, the calm before the storm, and the last thing I need in my life. 

⁂

I wipe my icing sugar coated hands in my lollipop print apron and turn towards the counter, forcing a tired customer service smile. I can’t say I recognise every customer, many people come and go, especially at this time of the year, but I know this guy. Or, know of him, a little. He is wearing a warm, grey wool coat and a blue scarf, a beanie hat over his brown hair, and his cheeks are red from the cold wind outside. He keeps his eyes down on the counter, but I still recognise him as the guy from the deli around the corner. I buy a few coffees and paninis from there each week, and most times, he manages to mess up my order somehow, giving me the wrong drink or sandwich. Yet every time, I take them without complaint, and over and over again I go back for more. Maybe, it's because he also mastered that charming customer service smile.

Glancing at the item he put on the counter, my smile fades. A heart shaped box of pralines.

‘Oh.’ I say, trying to think of how I should break it to him. It was a crazy expensive box of chocolates, limited edition for Valentine’s Day, each box personalised and unique. And I mean crazy expensive - something you definitely can’t just buy for yourself as your mealtime snack, or at the very least, not on our salaries. 

Glancing at the “No Valentine’s gift returns!” sign by the till I clear my throat, and shift my weight uncomfortably. I am only a shop assistant and key holder, I don’t own the place, I don't manage the store and I certainly don't make the rules about returns and refunds. 

‘The thing is…’ I start, but break off as he glances up and his shiny eyes, still red from crying, meet mine.

‘Yes?’ His voice sounds somewhat hoarse.

I swallow and gesture to the sign with an awkward grimace. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Is all I can come up with, hoping he won’t make it difficult. A muttered, whiney “Oh fuck!” slips off his tongue at the realisation that he can not return the item that probably equals his wages for a week’s work in cost. I watch him take a deep, shaky breath and consider for a moment before pushing the box towards me.

‘Yours, then.’

…What?

‘No.’ I push it back, and for a while we just stand there, our hands on the two sides of the heart shaped box, both of us trying to refuse keeping it.

‘As I said, no returns or refunds.’ I state firmly, narrowing my eyes. His fill with tears, so I let go and back off a couple steps. I am no good with crying people. I am no use for emotional support, even if I know someone I’ve no clue how to comfort them, and of this guy the only thing I know is that he can make a flat white but can’t melt mozzarella. That won’t do. I’m aware of my terrified expression as I watch him swipe the box over to my side, almost throwing it at me in his sudden anger. I clumsily dodge it out of reflex and it lands with a loud slam on its flat side in front of my feet.

“I Love You” it reads.

I stare at him, but at this point he is just sobbing on the counter.

‘I’m closing.’ I say, gritting my teeth. I turn the sign on the door from “Open” to “Closed” and lock up, whilst the deli guy is having a meltdown, still on the shopfloor. I close the till and switch off the main lights, but he is still there, head on the counter, and I wonder if I can allow myself to yield to the temptation of just… leaving him there.

Unfortunately, I think that’d be frowned upon.

‘Hey.’ I poke him with a lollipop, and he glares at it with utter disgust, like it’s the sweets’ fault he got dumped. I highly doubt that.

‘Don’t you have anything better?’ He hisses and pushes my hand away.

‘Of course I do.’ I grin, and almost leave it at that. Then, I offer him a joint. The only “better” thing I can quickly pull out, considering how loosing my job for getting a customer high, if it comes to it, sounds more agreeable than getting fired for sexual harrassment. He takes it and fiddles with it a bit, turning it around his fingers.

'Nice one. You have plans for today?'

'No.'

'Then,' He looks up, his eyes settling on mine. 'What's up with this?' He holds up the cigarette. 'Did you really mean this? Because I didn't. And if you are trying to be considerate, why, you have no business looking after my feelings, right? So let me ask again…' he puts the joint back into my hand, resting his fingers in my palm. I hold my breath, acknowledging the sudden nervous squeeze in my belly and how my heart skips a beat as I'm waiting for him to ask, knowing already I'm too weak to refuse him. Knowing already, I'm about to make a mistake.

'Got nothing better?'

⁂

This could be romantic. That is, if we overlook the fact that I, a perfect stranger, offered this guy candy and locked the door on him. It could be a date, if we ignore how we both didn't want this, or at the least not like this, not today. We’ve got the checklist down: the wine, the chocolates, the sex and it’s Valentine’s after all. Only, the wine is the cheapest from the corner store and we drink it from the bottle, the chocolates aren’t really meant for me, and the sex is with a man who is willing but crying, in the cramped little staff room at the back of the store, full of cardboard boxes, so, to sum it up: it’s hardly any good. It’s uncomfortable and cold, with the window open so it won't smell like weed in the morning. It’s not what we planned for tonight, and I’m not sure either of us actually enjoys it. I don’t even know his name, and I doubt he knows mine. He probably won't care to ask either. Whilst he is putting his clothes back on, I put out my cigarette and start to clean up the mess we made. As long as I get rid of the smell, the bottles and cigarette butts, the manager will never know, no one will ever know and by the next morning it will be like nothing happened at all. I wonder if I should stop going to the deli. He sits on a cardboard box and takes another chocolate, before offering me the last one.

‘This was good.’

‘Mm.’ I agree with my mouth full, savouring the flavour, before pausing. 'You mean the chocolate, right?'

'No offence.' He laughed.

‘No, it is delicious. Good enough to worth the break up?’ I grin. It is a mistake, and an insensitive one, I know immediately, but I’ve already let it slip. And immediately after is just too late for realising these things. His face hardens like he just remembered what he was really trying to forget for the last few hours here, what we were both trying to forget I suppose: that we have nobody waiting for us at home. Cursing, he drops the box on the floor, grabs his coat and storms off into the night, his footsteps echoing in the dark, cobbled alley.

⁂

I sigh and finish cleaning up the staff room, and to avoid any questions, I pick up the empty chocolate box before stepping outside. If my colleagues found it in the bin, I’m sure they would have some questions for me. They know it is way out of my budget. I lock the door and walk down the dark street with the box under my arm.

I suppose, maybe there is something in the romanticising of retail jobs, though, it was merely the pressure of the day of romance, really nothing else but a hookup of circumstance. Maybe I can still show my face at the deli and carry on with my single life…?

⁂

After all, we owe each other nothing. Not a sorry or a thank you and certainly not more space. If I ever feel like getting the wrong drink, I will still go and let him mess that up too, like I let him mess up my hair and the staff room; it's a low price to pay for that soulless but oh-so-sweet customer service smile. Starting with my coffee, he is already used to messing things up for me. My thoughts included, or why else on earth would I be clutching onto a fancy cardboard heart that spells “I Love You” but is empty inside?

Feeling a little gross and a lot guilty, I can't help thinking: this story had the perfect setup for a whirlwind romance. But my life isn’t a romcom and this is how retail is in real life. We aren't that kind of charitable store, and I am not your sugar-sweet candyman.

I mean when I say this:

No matter how nicely you ask or how much you cry; there are no returns on a broken heart.