Ramona stood at the twenty items-or-less line with her twenty four pack of pop, swinging a little under her own weight. She laid it on the counter, to which the cashier, her affection, looked up, humorlessly smiling. They shared an extracted glace as beeps beeped in the background.

She faltered first: "Raymond."

He scanned the pop with an intentional ignorance of her, then looked up without malice to say, "I don't know your name; you don't have a name tag."

She intook breath, a sigh pressing on her voice as she looked away. "How--how have you been?"

"That'll be four-ninety--credit, I suppose."

With a downcast look, she gave him a five, then pressed her hand to her forehead, a nervous gesture, and said, "What have you done since high school?"

"Does Wal-Mart look like much?"

"It does to me."

"And who are you?"

"Raymond--you know who I am."

"The girl without a name tag?" He held out a dime in a way that he wouldn't have to touch her; it hurt her.

"Raymond...I--I love you--"

"You don't even know me. You've seen me before; you've laughed at me before. You lost your life when high school ended; you come here 'cause you want someone to remember the old you."

She stood, fragmented, frozen. "Ray--"

"Stop saying my name like you know me." He forced the dime and receipt into her hand. "This line's twenty items or less--speedy checkout."

She stared at him, petrified, then grabbed everything she would ever need and went out into the world where things weren't labelled, weren't evident like herself.