She was by the far wall, near the shoe racks. If I had only glanced, I would have cataloged the basics: hoodie gone soft with time, ponytail that said “done with hands and a toothbrush, maybe,” stroller with a baby asleep so perfectly still you’d check twice. But the way she stood—weight on one foot, eyebrows knit together like she was doing long division—made me watch. There are stances you learn when money becomes math you can’t solve. She had that stance.
In one hand, a pair of trainers with soles thin as paper, gray gone almost green. In the other, white sneakers with faint creases at the toe and the kind of cushioning that says your knees won’t hate you tonight. She turned them over like she was reading tea leaves, then glanced down at her own shoes. The laces were knotted at least three times, probably not by choice.
