I hate it. I hate the shops filled with people, the crowded streets, the shoving and pushing. Indoors it always too warm, you start sweating under your coat and your fur-lined hood, with your gloves and boots, and outside its too cold. Unless you live somewhere near the equator, then its too warm no matter what you do.
Standing in line behind the counter, the cashier doing her tasks in the speed of a turtle after lobotomy. She has red hair, two small braids on both sides of her face, the rest of her hair flowing over her back. She is small and a bit chubby. And you think: Why the two braid? Her face is round enough as it is. Why would you highlight something like this. She's wearing too much make-up to conceal her freckles, without it she would look more interesting, with the landscape of little dots all over her face, look more interesting.Â
Two people are in front of you, a girl, twenty-something, and a young man. The red-haired cashier looks at him somewhat hopeful. Of course, she has no boyfriend. He's buying a cook book with romantic recipes for two. Sorry red-head, he's taken. And now, he's gone and you're left with the twenty-something girl and her copy of "The Hunger Games".Â
And there it is again, the dreadful combination of a slow cashier and an even slower customer. And you're standing there, you feel the blood flowing to your swelling feet inside your boots, your coat is heavy on your shoulders, dragging you down and you start shifting from one foot to the other, sweating, annoyed, tired and entirely uncomfortable.Â
Then they're done. You hand her your copy of vegan cooking for your alternative grandmother, the money already in your hand, cash, the exact price. Almost, you give her the one cent you get back: "For luck. Merry Christmas." And she smiles and you smile and you leave and she stays trapped behind her counter. Time to go home.
