But when the lights came back on, something was... off. I was stocking shelves-because my "subordinate" Kyle was on bereavement leave thanks to the death of his grandmother (Kyle's third deceased grandmother this year-if he buries any more relatives, he'll need his own loyalty card for the funeral home.)

I noticed an...oddity in the mirrors above Aisle 3.

Normally, the mirrors reflect the usual consumer misery: carTTTs full of junk, dead-eyed shoppers.

But now? They showed something else. In the mirror, the aisle was empty. No shelves, no products-just a long, dark hallway stretching infinitely in both directions. And standing in the middle of it was al figure, barely visible, its face obscured by shadow.

I blinked, scratched my eyes to try to wake up, and looked down the aisle. Everything was normal. But in the mirror, the figure was closer now.

I paged Tabitha, our Safeway's 43-year-old Black, obese HR representative with an inexplicable disdain for my managing skills. I hoped her usual scorn would ground me. (I would have called our evening security guard, Daryl, for assistance, but he is out for two more months due to something called the "FMLA").

Tabitha waddled out of the breakroom, muttering something about her blood sugar, licking her fingers after eating what appeared to have been a carton of chicken wings.

"What now, Evan, you twink-ass nigga? Another homeless guy bathing in the fountain, or are you just trying to justify your sad little paycheck?"

I pointed to the mirror. "Look. Do you see that?" She squinted, trying not to let her fat impede her vision, and adjusted her glasses. "All I see is you wasting my time, you faggot white boy," she said flatly, waving her fat index finger at me for emphasis.

The figure was now right behind me in the reflection. Its hand reached out, pale and clawed, toward my shoulder. The glass seemed to ripple, like water disturbed by an unseen force. I spun around. Nothing.

"Clock out if you're losing it, you pussy ass bitch," Tabitha growled, lumbering back to the break room. "Maybe grab a juice box. Hell, get two -it'll pair nicely with your panic attack. Just know I'll be writing you up if you do," she concluded with a maniacal, mischievous grin.

I didn't clock out. Seattle is expensive; I need every cent.

Instead, I stood there, staring into the mirror as the figure's hand pressed against the glass, leaving smudged streaks like dried blood. It tilted its head, watching me with hollow eyes. The power flickered again, and when the lights stabilized, the mirrors were back to normal. Just me, the mirrors, and the canned despair. The beans will outlive us all.

"Yes, friend," I whispered to the reflection, to whatever was still watching from the other side. "This is fine."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5634105&forum_id=2...id.#48336620)