😵😲I rushed to the shop assistant lying in the fridge, ready to hear about a fainting spell, a fire, or even an impending apocalypse — but her response was more absurd and frightening than any disaster.
I entered my tiny shop as usual. And there — a scene worthy of a bad thriller: my shop assistant lying in the fridge, among sausages, cheeses, and frozen cutlets, like an item in a “two for the price of one” promotion.
I lunged toward her, opened the door, and, nearly out of breath, shouted:
— What are you doing?! Why did you lock yourself in here?! People are already filming you, laughing! Police, health inspectors, bloggers… the end of the shop!
Customers had gathered like at the enclosure of a rare animal. Some were commenting, some were live streaming, some were crunching chips. The atmosphere — almost festive.
And she… slowly turned her head to me. No panic. No shame. Like I had woken her from a vacation.
😵😵I was ready to hear anything: fainting, illness, nervous breakdown, secret protest against the sausages, or that she had simply mixed up the doors…
But not this.
Continuation in the first comment👇👇
— The internet works better here, — she said calmly — and today is the final episode of my series.
And that was it.
No dramatic music, no remorse, no shame. Just the series. The season finale was more important than hygiene rules, customers, my heart attack, and the shop’s reputation.
At that moment it became completely clear to me: the fridge was not the coldest thing in this story. The most frozen was me — with my nerves, my rules, my logic, and my attempts to control everything.
Around me, life went on: someone was filming, someone laughing, someone posting it online faster than I could think.
I silently closed the fridge door. Not because I understood everything. But because I understood that arguing with modern reality is like arguing with sausages.
