I walked over. I didn’t make a big thing of it.
I slid a yellow meal ticket under her elbow.
She looked up at me with big brown eyes.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The cafeteria made extras today,” I said. “Somebody needs to eat them. Or they’ll just go in the trash.”
She looked at the ticket. She looked at me. She looked over at the food line, where a man in a white hat was spooning out macaroni and cheese.
“Really?”
“Really,” I said.
She got up and went to get in line.
I went back out to my car in the parking garage. Free parking. No time limit. I sat behind the wheel for a moment before I started the engine.
In my purse, in the little zippered pocket where I keep my reading glasses, there’s an old yellow lunch ticket. Soft and fuzzy at the edges. FRANKLIN ELEMENTARY in faded blue letters.
