Laura Volkmann

The hum of the headset feels like an extra heartbeat, a pulse I can’t ignore. Fourteen years in a supermarket in Berlin, Germany, and it’s always the same: deliveries to check in, shelves to stock, prices to update. The voice in my ear reminds me of tasks I haven’t finished yet. On busy days, it’s chaos. At 32, I’ve developed a knack for juggling it all without falling apart—at least on the outside.

Working the checkout is the hardest. The conveyor belt is like a relentless treadmill, every beep of the scanner a tiny demand for more speed. Once, a man forgot to weigh his tomatoes, and the entire line behind him seemed to groan in unison. He turned red, mumbled an apology, and ran back to the produce section. The woman behind him sighed loudly, muttering about people who waste time.

I kept smiling, kept scanning. That’s what we do—absorb everyone else’s frustration while pretending not to feel our own. But later that night, I replayed the scene and felt a pang of guilt. I could have handled it differently, reassured him instead of letting the silence pile up.

A few weeks ago, I was on vacation in Italy, standing in a small, sunlit supermarket. The difference was like stepping into another world. At the checkout, the cashier and an older woman were deep in conversation, laughing about something I couldn’t catch. The line behind her didn’t shuffle or sigh; they just waited. When it was my turn, the cashier greeted me warmly, even commenting on the wine I’d chosen.

On my last day there, I asked the woman at the deli counter how she managed to stay so calm. She smiled and shrugged, slicing prosciutto with practiced ease. “Why hurry?” she said. “People will eat whether I’m fast or slow.”

Back in Berlin, the headset buzzes again, pulling me into the present. “Customer complaint at register four,” someone says. I glance at my watch, already bracing myself. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear her voice: Why hurry?