Late one evening in the towns supermarket, Irène sat at the register, eyes shining with tears, drained by fatigue, injustice, and loneliness. The sleepless night had taken its toll. Her neighbor Jacques, a notorious drunk, was again making a racket on the other side of the wall with his drinking buddies, and even the police could no longer calm him down.
Scanning her surroundings, Irène wiped away her tears. A handsome young man in a stylish coat approached her till. For the past month this tall brunette had come to her counter to pay for his pizza and fruit juice. Probably a loner, she thought. Someone lucky will end up with a guy this goodlooking.
The customer, pizza in hand, smiled and handed her a fiftyeuro note, then hesitated. Ill get change so I dont bother you, he said, paid for his purchase, and left.
An hour remained before the store closed. The few remaining shoppers pushed their carts halfheartedly. Irène, yawning despite herself, muttered a silent curse at Jacques, who staggered in at that moment, bruised and clutching two bottles of premium vodka. He flashed a mocking grin and placed a fresh fiftyeuro bill on the counter. Thatll keep the party going till dawn, Irène thought, irritated.
Jacques, did you rob anyone? she asked. His mischievous eyes flickered between his bruises. Why would I steal?
Out of habit, Irène examined the note under the light, ran her fingers over it, then suddenly Hold on, Jacques, somethings off We need to check it. She fed the bill into the detector and whispered, Where did you get this? Its counterfeit!
Jacques froze like a passport photo, clutching the bottles to his chest, recalling an abandoned prayer. He hurriedly set the alcohol on the counter. Check these too, he said, offering two more fiftyeuro notes. I have to alert the police!
I swear, I found them in front of the shop, someone dropped a wallet and I picked up the cash. Please dont report me the drunk pleaded.
Irène relished her fear, ready to admit it was a joke: the notes were genuine. But the neighbor, pocketing fifteen thousand euros, rushed to the trash to destroy the evidence. Jacques tore the bills apart with satisfaction and left.
Irène was taken aback. What had she done? Yet, in a way, he deserved it.
Excuse me, the familiar client said. I bought a pizza earlier
I remember, Irène replied warily, without change.
Its not that I lost my wallet when I got into my car. How careless of me.
Was there a lot of money? Irène asked, thinking of Jacques.
Its not the money, it doesnt matter. I scribbled an important phone number on a bill in a hurry. If anyone finds it, give them the cash but copy the number for me. Heres my card.
Alright, Irène agreed.
Her mood remained sour. Until the end of her shift she contemplated how to help the pizza lover. Finally she grabbed a bag and hurried to the trash to empty its contents.
At home, wearing gloves, she sifted through the shredded bill pieces, cursing herself for the silly prank.
And he, such a scatterbrain Its probably a womans number, Irène mused, eyes watery. The number appeared on two fragments.
How do I give it to him? I cant call from my phone; he might call back. What should I say? Talk about the fake bills?
She pulled out a business card: Alexandre Laurent, corporate and personal phone number. She needed to call from another line or just text. Maybe ask the elderly neighbor for her phone? What if Alexandre called back and didnt understand, but remembered Irène had been there? Would he think she, the cashier, had found the money, kept it, yet still sent the number?
Suddenly she realized she could ask the concierge for a phone, who would unlikely recognize her later. And if he succeeded better make sure he couldnt. Irène headed toward the cloakroom.
Soon a plump figure emerged from the building, wrapped in a coat, a fur coat, two scarves, a down scarf, and a cap. Someone could try to sketch this ridiculous creature. The silhouette slipped away, obscuring the trail, eyes peeled Spotting a discreet figurea fairly average Asian, apparently perfect for his plan.
Approaching the concierge, Irène whispered, I need to make a call, my battery is dead. She handed him five euros. He silently handed over his phone. Irène immediately sent Alexandre the mysterious womans number. Relieved, she thanked him quietly and went home.
Alexandre lay awake. He wasnt thinking about the money, but replaying a daytime encounter: heading to a café, he heard, Hey, Alex! Through the open door of a crowded bus, he spotted his friend Victor, whom he hadnt seen in five years. Im going to the station. Call me! Victor shouted a string of digits. Forgetting his own phone at work, Alexandre wrote the number on a bill, already looking forward to calling Victor in his single life. Things, however, didnt go as planned.
To distract himself, he focused on a pleasant subject: the cashier Irène, who had occupied his thoughts for a month. He remembered her wavy hair, clear skyblue eyes, and welcoming smile He realized he needed to know her better; loneliness was weighing on him.
A notification pinged. Only a number displayed. Whose was it? Then he realized: it was Victors! He had to call tomorrow. If the number was recovered, the money would be too. Now he just needed to thank the sender.
Hello. Thank you very much. Keep the money, its a gift.
A slightly foreign male voice replied, A GIFT? I dont understand. Im the concierge. Then he hung up.
It didnt matter who had sent it. Tomorrow he would share the news with Irène. She had seemed so sad the day before; she deserved compassion.
With the notion that he now had a reason to talk to Irène, Alexandre fell asleep smiling.
Irène spent much of the night crying, lamenting her chaotic life while feeling sorry for poor Jacques and the unattainable Alexandre, the clumsy dreamer.
The next evening, a cheerful Alexandre came to the register. Irène, everythings fine. Someone sent me the lost number, I managed to reach my friend he began, then stopped. But wait how did they get my number? I only gave my card to you.
Irène stayed silent, unable to speak.
So you were the one who found the money and sent the number?
Without waiting for an answer, Alexandre hurried toward the exit.
Everything! He thinks Im a thief. Its over! Irène thought, panicking, grabbing her bag and chasing after him.
Alexandre, wait!!!
Customers watched, curious, as the young woman caught up, spoke quickly, then opened her bag and extended her hand.
Alexandre stared at two pieces of a red bill bearing Victors number
A few moments later, laughter rang from their side.
Weeks later, the Laurents celebrated their wedding, with Irène alternating between laughter and tears of joy. Even Jacques joined the festivities.
