As the postal worker takes the last of my packages to the back of the post office and moves to shut the door, I stop her.
“Could you please get me a receipt for these?” I ask, holding the door as her neutral face turns to a scowl.
“You should have told me earlier,” she scolds as she goes to get the portable scanner.
“She’s lovely,” I turn and mouth silently to the customer standing behind me, and then turn back with a smile to take the sullenly proffered receipt.
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