Last in Line

They announce that the store will close in ten more minutes, shoppers. Pushing my cart double-time to the dairy aisle, I scoop up a tub of Greek yogurt (is it really more beneficial?) and a half-gallon of Lactaid fat-free milk (ahh, to drink milk without farting later).
Rounding the corner (nobly ignoring Little Debbie snack cakes) to the bread aisle, I search the rows and rows of nutritionally enhanced white puffy-bread for Arnold’s Jewish rye with caraway seeds (never buy the Earth Grains so-called Jewish rye: it sucks).
Tick tock, gotta beat feet to the cashier.
But no, wait, tomatoes.
Fuck.
They’re three city blocks away in produce. Mmmmmm, chug-a chug, I go. Produce is a distant dream. Tick tock. More running.
Tomatoes, okay! Vine ripened (fat chance), Roma or cherry? Okay, Romas it is.
Pull a plastic bag from the roll. Can’t open the bag. Bag sides are stuck together. Okay in the bag. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, chug-a-chug. Rounding the corners, again, looking for the cash registers.
The “Less than ten items” cash is dark. Ah, but there’s a light at number 22. Only a quarter-mile to get there.
And I do. I may be last in line, but my breathless smile gets one in return from the tired cashier.
As I grab my packages to go I say, “I’m gonna take ten minutes to write about this.”
And I did.