“Excuse me,” I said. Polite, but firm.
The octogenarian didn’t budge. She maintained focus, her overstuffed shopping cart commanding her attention.
I smiled. I knew the game. I watched her pull the same line-cutting shenanigans with other customers, the tourists. Too bad I’m local.
Round two. This time an aggressive clearing of my throat followed by a gentle tap on the shoulder. Deadly stuff.
“There’s a line,” I then said, helpfully.
She turned and grinned, professing ignorance. Still didn’t move.
“Back of the line,” I whispered, patience exhausted. “I’d be happy to show you where.”
Not today, sister.
Not today.
The Weekday One Hundred 