“What’s that smell?” the patron in lane five wanted to know. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and all the turkeys are gone, ninety percent of the canned cranberry sauce, three-fourths of the hand. Slim pickin’s as folks run in and out of the store trying to find the missing ingredients to life and Aunt Edna’s special dressing recipe.
The cashier smelled it, too. A smile surprised her face, remembering the little lady about three hours early. She had needed three onions, that’s all, just three to throw into her stuffing for the family. She wore too much makeup, had on clothes too classy for a grocery store. And she smelled of old baby powder. It was a lingering smell, an aroma that evidently had left its mark.
“Just some baby powder, ma’am. Sorry if it’s too strong.”
“No no. It’s okay. Just reminded me of someone.”
“Me, too,” she smiled. “So, paper bags okay for today?”