The day I pranked Mrs. Dubreuil

The queue at the grocery store snaked its way past the magazine rack, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My basket overflowed with the usual suspects—a bag of wilting spinach, a forgotten loaf of bread, and a jar of the cheapest strawberry jam. My mind, on autopilot, drifted to the never-ending to-do list churning in my head: fix the leaky tap, send that pesky little letter (already overdue by a few weeks), call my mother. The overflowing bin mocked me from the curb, a plastic mountain threatening to topple over with yesterday's news and banana peels. I sighed, the familiar weight of domestic monotony settling on my shoulders. Laundry lingered, dishes piled in the sink, and the never-ending battle against dust seemed futile.

Suddenly, a booming voice shattered the monotony. An elderly woman, perched precariously on a rickety scooter, was berating a teenager stacking cans. "Those beans go on the bottom shelf, young man! Not with the tuna!" Her bright red lipstick contrasted starkly with her pale skin. The teenager, barely out of high school, mumbled an apology and shuffled the cans around. A ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the line. For a moment, the tedium was broken. Even the cashier, normally a stoic figure, cracked a smile. The woman on the scooter, oblivious to the stir she'd caused, continued her shopping with the air of a conquering queen. In that moment, the fluorescent lights seemed a little less harsh, the queue a little shorter.

I was new, back then, to the neighbourhood.

The cashier, a young man with tired eyes, leaned forward and whispered to the bagger next to him. "That's Mrs. Dubreuil. Used to be a schoolteacher, they say. Strict but fair, apparently."

The image of Mrs. Dubreuil, once a stern disciplinarian barking orders at unruly students, clashed hilariously with her current reign over the canned goods aisle. Perhaps this grocery run was a chance to flex her authority in a (mostly) harmless way. Maybe, beneath the bossiness, there was a hint of loneliness, a yearning for the days when her voice commanded respect. The thought sparked a flicker of empathy within me. Maybe the overflowing shelves weren't just about misplaced beans; they were a way to feel needed, a tiny echo of her past influence.

The next time I was at the grocery store, a strange impulse seized me. There she was, navigating herself towards the canned food section. A can of diced tomatoes, strategically chosen for its vibrant red colour, felt strangely heavy in my hand. My gaze darted around, searching for a discreet spot.  Almost unconsciously, I nudged the can onto a shelf for vegetables, a mischievous grin tugging at my lips.

Heart pounding a little faster than usual, I retreated to a corner by the bakery, feigning interest in the selection of stale croissants. From my vantage point, I could see Mrs. Dubreuil approach the misplaced can. She stopped, her brow furrowing slightly.  Then, with a sigh that could have been amusement or resignation, she bent down and moved the can to its rightful place on the bottom shelf.

Relief washed over me, laced with a surprising pang of… disappointment? I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but the quiet acceptance of my little prank left me feeling strangely unsettled. Returning to my basket, I noticed a stray can of beans nestled amongst the bread. With a smile, I placed it back on its rightful shelf – the bottom one, of course.