Simon had noticed that Will had a smugness about him, lately. It had been just the past few times they'd worked together, but his co-worker had seemed pleased with himself in some superior manner. Simon thought it amusing in a placid sort of way; the things human beings put themselves through! There were so many different boxes in which they stored their memories and prospects, so many categories for so many feelings. Each moment in the present was spent agonizing over some lost fabrication, or basking in the bliss of a new caprice, or, as was most common, just wasted—lost to time and space before its value could be counted. Was it even possible that there was such a thing as the present? For every single teeny measure of time was either imminent or moving further away from the others into the past, like dandelion seeds floating away on a lazy wind. This image was in his mind when the bagger walking up to accompany him at the register interrupted his thoughts.

"You been here all day?"

Simon turned to look at the boy. He was a couple of years younger than he, pasty white and quite acne-ridden. The poor kid was good natured in spite of it, though. "No," Simon replied. "Just for the past hour, since I got out of school. I'm here until ten, though."

"Me too. Just got here, though. I'm starting to hate this place."

It was common practice for everyone to complain to him about working at Food Mart, Simon had noticed. He could never join in their complaints, because he didn't mind working. It kept him busy, and he knew he didn't absolutely need the job; he could just as easily quit and work somewhere else. But, as was often the case, an attentive ear was all most people sought. If Simon Hobbs was nothing else, he had a true gift for listening.

"My girlfriend wants me to quit, but I told her nah, I can't take her out to the movies if I do that!"

Instinctively, Simon knew this kid did not have a girlfriend. He also knew the guy had been working only about a week. Initiation into various groups, though, whether they be friendship or employee circles, were often based on rituals only rightful members performed, and complaining was one easy way of fitting into the Food Mart worker group.

The kid prepped his area. Business was slow just then, so it wasn't as if he had much to jump right into. Simon had been standing at the register for nearly ten minutes without anyone coming through. Everyone seemed to be headed to self-checkouts or the pharmacy; nobody needed an express lane today. Simon helped the kid put away some baskets that had stacked up behind the register and straighten a knot of plastic bags that had formed earlier in the day. Then, they filled the paper bags. Simon never minded helping. The whole while, the kid talked about his non-existent girlfriend, whose name he never once mentioned.

"I got her this kick-ass necklace for her birthday last month. It's a real diamond heart and everything. Because I don't do my lady wrong, you know what I mean? For real, man. I gotsta get my gangsta on! I'm high rollin'. That's why I need to keep this job. What about you, man? You got yourself a girlfriend?"

Simon smiled good-naturedly. "Oh, no. Not me."

The kid looked scandalized. "Aw! No way, man! Tall dude like you . . . but I think a lot of girls like us short guys because we're their height and all. But maybe if you lose those glasses, man, you might pick up some more chicks. You and me, then we could go out sometime. You know, like double date and all."

Patience was a natural practice for Simon. "That sounds like it could be fun."

"Yeah? Really?" The kid started a bit, as if he hadn't expected an affirmative answer. "Well, don't get too excited just yet. Keep your pants on. You've got to get a girlfriend first. I'll see if mine has some friends or something."

"Okay." Simon nodded, comforted to know that would never happen.

"Just don't get your hopes up. That's all I'm saying. Oh hey! There're some people. Get ringing."

Simon turned to address the customers and, much to his shock, looked right into the heart-shaped face of his waitress. His Eve—because that was how his mind wrapped itself around her: it deemed her its own.

"Oh! If it isn't my tea-drinker," she chirped, her smile melting the ice in the frozen section.

Yes, he thought. Her tea drinker. "Simon," he said, assuming she'd forgotten his name.

"I know. I haven't forgotten. How are you? I haven't seen you in a few days."

She began placing her items on the conveyor belt. Cereal, milk, eggs, cup noodles, salad mix, bread . . . he took note of it all methodically. She was so vibrant; her small frame looked delicate and lovely; her large eyes sparkled with an ebullience he could barely comprehend. She was the epitome of charm with her short dark hair and quick movements.

"You haven't given up tea, have you?" she mock-chided him, shaking a finger and attempting a stern look.

Simon felt suddenly conscious of his appearance. The apron . . . it was awful! His hair . . . was it too long and in his face? And his glasses . . . why had the bagger boy commented on them? Were they out of style? Catching his ludicrous thoughts where they were, he responded, "No, no. I love it. Tea, I mean. I love tea. I could drink it all the time."

"Then you'd have to pee a lot!" interpolated the bagger kid, snickering at his comment.

Heat fueling his insides, Simon silently scanned his waitress's items and shoved them down toward the kid. He'd never felt more aware of his striking height and awkward, gangly form. There was nothing he could do about it now, though. His mind a blank, he finished scanning her items and rattled off the price of the groceries. He wondered if anyone else could sense his tension and hoped that they could not.

"How do I scan my card?" she asked, holding the thing up and scrunching her face into a confused grimace.

Simon slowly took it from her and ran it through himself, instructing her as to which buttons to press. He calmed down quickly; giving instructions lessened intimidation.

"Thanks. All of these machines are different, you know."

He smiled. "I know." Then his long fingers gingerly pulled her receipt off the tiny printer and she signed her credit card slip.

Putting her card back into her wallet, she slipped it into her pocket and took her bags from the kid. "Well, I hope to see you again soon, Simon! I'm there every weekday morning and some weekends!" With that, she was gone—out the door within seconds—and Simon noticed that another woman followed her, although he hadn't even realized she'd been in the check-out lane.

Simon felt like a teenager, for once. He felt a mass of confusion and a tortuous tightening in his chest, both of which reminded him that he actually was just in high school. He'd never felt so overwhelmingly his age, before, and he absolutely hated it. He could hardly bear watching her leave the store, and yet there wasn't a thing he felt able to say to her. It was such a raw helplessness, and he simultaneously scolded and laughed at himself for indulging in it. She was a person, plain and simple—like every other soul on the planet earth. Why had she so intrigued him? He couldn't answer it, and so it continued to plague him. His nights were still sleepless with self-reprimands over his irrationality.

She'd called him her tea drinker. He smiled.

As if it mattered! He sighed.

"Snap out of it!" the bagger barked. "Dude, did you know that lady?"

That's right. She was a lady—a ma'am; he was seventeen. "I've seen her at a café I stop by sometimes before school."

"Yeah, I could tell she worked at a coffee place or something. Looks just like someone who would."

Outwardly calm but inwardly agitated, Simon excused himself from the register, saying he needed to use the restroom. As he walked back toward the employee rest area, his shame toward his feelings grew. Air. He just needed air. It was nice outside, so he stepped out back and let the breeze cool him. Standing there in the shade from the building, looking up at the patch of clear blue sky, Simon felt his normal inner quietude settling back in. Though he'd had a number of sleepless nights, he had yet to discover the reason Eve upset him as much as she did. It was inconceivable, and Simon was beginning to realize how foolish he'd been to believe himself immune to the very things he'd always deemed humans pitiable for. He was no more an observer than the next man; he was a participant. It had taken this one person he didn't even know to make him understand that.

"What's wrong with you?"

Simon turned to his left and noticed Will—his disgruntled co-worker—sitting on the back stoop, arms on his knees. He must have been there when Simon walked out, and he was staring somewhat disdainfully at him now.

A bit disconcerted, averting his eyes, Simon replied honestly, "I don't know."

Except for the birds and traffic, there was silence. The two just sat.

"Me either," Will at last said, and when Simon turned to look at him, he got the distinct impression that his co-worker was talking about himself.

In that moment, they were the same.