The Spill… and the Kind of Cruelty That Comes Easy
Down the aisle, a woman in a sleek black coat and designer heels stood beside a spilled latte.
She looked like the kind of person who expected the world to move for her.
Near her was Ruth.
Small. Slightly hunched. Wearing a faded blue janitor’s uniform and a navy cap that didn’t sit quite right.
Her hands shook just enough to make the mop handle sway with her breathing.
I recognized Ruth immediately.
She’d worked at that store for years—long enough that she’d become part of the background of my weekly errands.
I lived next door. I’d seen her catching the bus, hauling deliveries, wiping carts at dawn.
Once, about a year earlier, I noticed her holding her elbow like it hurt.
She had paper towels pressed to it, like she was trying to quietly patch herself up.
