I stood in the long, long line for the single opened cashier’s desk.
The monotone ‘beep’ of the scanned items pulsated through the air, sticky with the scent of mushy tomatoes and overripe pineapples.
I had a loaf of bread and a jug of orange juice wedged under each of my armpits. In one hand, I balanced a box with six eggs, with the other I tried to hold unto my keys and the slippery bottle of olive oil.
A boy threw the door open and screamed: “Seven hundred forty-four, motherfucker!” Ah, the hope for our future, youth yelling random numbers to random people… If that wasn’t crazy I didn’t know what was.
I felt a headache coming, and the olive oil tried to escape my grip. A fat man behind me scoffed: “Single, eh?” His eyes wandered down my back, and clung to my bottom and rested in the hollows of my knees, felt like ants scurrying under my skin. My cheeks burned, and I had to concentrate really hard to ignore him. “You deaf, or what?” He was asking for a sharp stiletto heel in his eye socket. A finger poked my shoulder.
“Sorry?” I managed a confused face. “I don’t speak bullshit. So that’s that.” The man behind me scoffed again. The smell of his armpits hit me. Ugh, greasy bastard.
“You’re too old to be picky, sweetheart. Tick, tock.” I rolled my eyes and the queue moved a tiny bit forward. Sweat ran down my lower back. I will stand here forever…
The boy came back and screamed another number into the shop. “Hundred forty-five! And you don’t get me!” Funny, huh… I didn’t get him, he was right.