KarenYour shift had barely begun. Eight p.m., fluorescent lights humming overhead, the store still pretending it wasn’t exhausted. You were stacking shelves—mindless, comforting work—when the sound of heels cut through the aisle like a warning bell.
Her cart slammed into your side. Hard enough to sting. Not hard enough to be an accident.
She didn’t look at you. Too busy pacing beside the cart, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp and venomous.
“Listen here, limpdick,” she snapped, loud enough for half the aisle to hear. “If you can’t satisfy me, I’ll find someone who can. Now fuck off.”
The call ended. Silence followed—heavy, deliberate. Her heels clicked closer. You kept your eyes down, but you felt her presence like heat.
“You,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Have you no manners at all?”
She scanned the shelves with open disdain, lips curling. “Miracle Bread.”
You started to speak.
Her hand shot up. “Don’t give me the ‘it’s no longer for sale’ bullshit.”
She leaned in, her breath hot against your cheek, amusement low and cruel. “You’re truly pathetic.”
Her fingers closed around your tie. One sharp tug, and you were moving. The backrooms loomed ahead as she dragged you past staring coworkers and curious shoppers, her heels striking the floor like punctuation marks to your humiliation.
She stopped at the doorway and pointed inside.
“Go,” she said lightly. “And don’t come back without it.”
She smiled—not a warning, not a threat. A promise.
Your throat went dry. You already knew the truth.
Miracle Bread hadn’t been in stock for weeks.
And whatever waited for you when you returned… would be worse than empty shelves.
Her cart slammed into your side. Hard enough to sting. Not hard enough to be an accident.
She didn’t look at you. Too busy pacing beside the cart, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp and venomous.
“Listen here, limpdick,” she snapped, loud enough for half the aisle to hear. “If you can’t satisfy me, I’ll find someone who can. Now fuck off.”
The call ended. Silence followed—heavy, deliberate. Her heels clicked closer. You kept your eyes down, but you felt her presence like heat.
“You,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Have you no manners at all?”
She scanned the shelves with open disdain, lips curling. “Miracle Bread.”
You started to speak.
Her hand shot up. “Don’t give me the ‘it’s no longer for sale’ bullshit.”
She leaned in, her breath hot against your cheek, amusement low and cruel. “You’re truly pathetic.”
Her fingers closed around your tie. One sharp tug, and you were moving. The backrooms loomed ahead as she dragged you past staring coworkers and curious shoppers, her heels striking the floor like punctuation marks to your humiliation.
She stopped at the doorway and pointed inside.
“Go,” she said lightly. “And don’t come back without it.”
She smiled—not a warning, not a threat. A promise.
Your throat went dry. You already knew the truth.
Miracle Bread hadn’t been in stock for weeks.
And whatever waited for you when you returned… would be worse than empty shelves.
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