Sorry Not Sorry

I work in a grocery store overseeing the self-serve machines. I have to clean every machine between customers, something that’s generally pretty easy to do given how quiet things are. As I’m cleaning, a sweet-looking older American lady beckons me over.

Customer: “Excuse me. I’m sorry about this, but I’m a teacher, so I have to say it.”

She then explains to me in vivid and graphic detail exactly how the chemicals from the cleaning spray I’m using will enter into my body and eventually settle in my liver, leading to my death. I laugh awkwardly, not sure of what to say.

Customer: “I’m sorry. I’m an English teacher and my sister is a science teacher. She learns about this stuff and tells me about it. I’m sorry.”

She then carries on explaining how even dusting your house will destroy your liver, and how we should basically be wearing full hazmat suits with face coverings and goggles whenever we do any sort of cleaning, all backed up with detailed scientific fact. Finally, she pays and goes to leave.

Customers: “Bye. Thanks for your help. Sorry about all that.”

I continued cleaning each machine after she left, now with the knowledge that every squirt of the bottle was dragging me closer to the bleak inevitability of an early death. Thanks, lady.