[dropcap]I[/dropcap] stood in line at the grocery store. The cashier was ringing up a sweet elderly couple in line ahead of me. Their cart was mounding full, stacked with things like Ensure, turnips, prune juice, and legal pads. They placed their items on the conveyor belt one at a time, making sure not to move too fast.
They shuffled to the front of their cart, bent down, and strained to lift an extra-large can of pork and beans from of the bottom. I decided to step in and make the Dalai Lama proud. I unloaded their beans, boxes of wine, bags of charcoal, and thousands of Jell-O boxes.
The three-foot-tall elderly woman thanked me in a soft, kind voice.
The girl-cashier scanned their items, and when she came to the boxes of wine, the girl grinned at the older woman.
“Young lady,” the cashier said with a smirk. “I’m going to have to ask to see your ID for all this wine.”
I giggled under my breath.
The elderly woman’s husband hobbled toward the cashier, “You need to get a pair of glasses you blind-ass-bitch.”