Small Hands

It was pouring from the morning yesterday.
On days like this, there are extremely few customers, so I do things I usually can't, like cleaning the backroom or carefully organizing products on shelves that don't get touched often.
There is an inventory check in the final week of this month. It's better to get the preparations done early.

Even so, customers come in one by one. More than half of them are looking for plastic umbrellas.
Everyone is soaking wet, as if they had all agreed to be, and it's almost pitiful.

The intersection in front of the store always has very strong winds during bad weather.
I think the fact that there are many tall buildings around and a relatively large river right in front of it also has an influence.
That's why, even though they managed to carry their umbrellas without trouble until then, many people get hit by a sudden, fierce gust of wind the moment they reach this intersection, and their umbrellas are ruined in an instant.
Even though they are just a little bit away from arriving at the station, customers whose umbrellas broke at the last big intersection come to my store looking for the cheapest plastic umbrella so they can walk the short distance to the station without getting wet.

It must have been around before noon.
When the rain was falling particularly hard,
“Check out, please.”
A woman in her thirties came to the register with a plastic umbrella in her hand.
Her long, slightly brown-dyed hair was wet from the rain and stuck to her small face in places.
I could see she was in a bit of a hurry, so I consciously processed the register transaction quickly.

She took out her wallet to pay, but suddenly stopped her hand and looked down, saying,
“Hey, don't wander around.”
At the end of her gaze was a shadow that wouldn't stop moving. A boy of about three years old. I couldn't see him because the register counter was in the way.
He seemed to be her child. He was wearing a cute raincoat, but that too was soaking wet.

He wouldn't stay still for a moment, spinning around his mother, touching products, and trying to get under the shelves.
Telling a child of that age 'don't move' is probably as impossible as telling a puppy to 'stay'.
Even so, perhaps thinking, 'It seems my mother doesn't like me wandering around like this,' he looked at me from behind his mother, who was waiting for the transaction, with mischievous eyes and grinned.
His neatly trimmed bangs were cute. I couldn't help but grin back.
His mother, who was in a desperate hurry, was focused on putting away her wallet and didn't notice her son's gaze at all.

“Alright, let's go now!”
Holding the plastic umbrella she had just bought under her arm, the mother started walking and called out in a slightly loud voice to her child, who was still fidgeting and playing.
He waved bye-bye to me with both hands. I waved back to respond.
He had started running ahead of his mother, but for some reason, he suddenly turned on his heel and ran back to the register.

Thinking he might have dropped something, I looked under the counter, and he reached up a bit and stuck a small hand out onto the counter.
“? What is it?”
When I tilted my head in confusion, he stomped his feet impatiently and said,
“High five!”
I could only see up to the middle of his nose from above the counter, but his black eyes were laughing mischievously. I couldn't help but laugh along.
“Okay!”
When we slapped our hands together, he laughed out loud, looking very happy, and after waving one more time, he ran off toward his mother without looking back this time.

Perhaps he high-fives his teacher when he leaves daycare.
To him, a high five must be a greeting for 'goodbye'.
Even after the parent and child left, my chest felt warm for a long time.

His damp little hand was a bit cold, perhaps from the rain.
I wonder if their outing with his mother went safely.
Come back again.
Let's high-five again when you leave.