Travesi

At a railway station shop, the woman behind the counter is wiping down the surface.  I ask if she is still open.  I have been working since e-six thirty', she says in a Spanish accent.  'I'm sorry', I reply.  'Why are you e-sorry?' she says, ' Is not your fault'.  I pick out a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.  She has silver-rimmed rounded glasses and dark hair in a bun.  She is wearing a pair of yellow converse.  Round her neck hangs a key.  I ask what it is for.  'It opens a little wooden box', she tells me.  'What's inside?' I ask.  'Nothing e-special', she replies.

'Woa.  Woa.  Woa.  E-slowly', she says with her hands in the air as I try to ask my question.  She tells me that she doesn't have a middle name.  In Spain they have two surnames.  She writes one down on a till receipt.  'Is the most important', she says, 'my father's'.