The shop is small and always overheated which makes it a paradise for flies. The sellers struggle with insects constantly spraying around the smell of synthetic lemon. The owner of the shop is a man with gray hair who sits in his wheelchair behind the cash desk. Every time I pay him he produces a treacle smile and says thank you in such a gooey sweet tone that I feel uncomfortable. “I haven’t just spent a million,” I think to myself. “I have only bought some milk.”
It is not enough space here for a wheelchair to move around so the owner uses help. His seller, a fat woman wearing a ponytail and thick glasses, is opposite to him and never smiles at all.
“And?” I hear when I enter the shop. It is the seller’s normal way to say ‘Hello, how can I help you?’.
“I’ll take bread and this pack of candies.”
“Candies are not good for your teeth,” she says and yells the sum of my purchase to the owner who takes the money and presents me with his sugared compensating smile.
“What a creepy couple!” I think pushing the heavy door. “I should start buying at the other place that is eight blocks away. It’s not that far. After all, walking is good for health.”