The Last Corner Store

The world ended yesterday. The store opened anyway. "Welcome in," said the last clerk on shift. Outside the window there were two moons.

The door chimed. It had always been a cheerful chime and it did not know any better. What came in was shaped like a person, but sand fell from it with every step. It stopped at the counter, perfectly square to it, and spoke very clearly. "One bag, please. The large one."

"Bags are five cents." It came out of him automatically. The world ends; the script remains. The thing paused, then took a coin from a pocket that ran with sand and set it on the counter. It was minted in 1997. He rang it up. The drawer chimed shut. The till had to balance.

The customer carried the bag outside. Then it reached up and put the second moon into it. The moon went in without complaint. The bag bulged a little. "Thanks, come again," he said, because he had to say something.

The customer came back. Holding the bag. "Can I exchange this." He looked inside. The moon had gone soft on one side, the way fruit does. "Do you have the receipt?"

The door chimed. The customer set the bag on the counter. It was folded neatly, and it was empty. "I'm done with it," it said. He took the bag and put it under the register. Then he opened the shift log. March 7. Notes: none. Customers: 1. There was one moon outside. He held the pen a moment, then added a line under it. Opening again tomorrow.