Checkout

The rock on her right hand tells me she enjoys being from money. It’s not so much the size of it, though its at least a carat and a half. No, what gives it away is the way she twirls it on her finger as she places her items on the counter. It pulsates, twinkling amongst the lights. She wants to make sure that everyone sees it and comments on its beauty. I can almost see her eyes bore into me as she waits for me to say something about it. But I ignore her, reaching down to grab a bag from below my station at the register. She huffs, clearly too impatient to deal with swine she feels beneath her.

 
“I have one of those card things so you don’t need to ask me for it.”
She digs around in her high end bag for it, fishing it out from between a bag of tissues and what looks like some sort of costume jewelry bracelet that’s probably worth more than my car. Tossing it like a bomb across the counter, she then pulls out her credit card and swipes through the card reader before I even have a chance to get halfway through the stack of blouses she’s piled up on the counter. Because of this, she forces me to have to start the whole transaction over again. Another huff explodes out of her mouth like a cannon. I can tell she wanted to forget about me three minutes ago. She’s probably has selfies to take or a spinning class she’s 20 minutes late for. Either way my inability to check her out in three seconds has put me permanently on her radar.

 
“How long is this gonna take? Have you always been this slow?”

 
She studies me as if I were a wild beast on exhibit.

 
“God, I am never coming here again. Frederick’s downtown has waaay better selection.”

 
I put on my most sincere fake smile.

 
“I’m sorry ma’am it will only be a few more moments.”

 
I can finally hold her off long enough to ring everything properly and add in the discount. What likely passes as a splurge for her would be my mortgage payment for two months. She tears the bag from my fingers and spins away with a loud clack of some designer high heel three inches too high to take her seriously. I watch as she sashays towards the door, holding the bag out in front of her as if it was garbage being taken out to the dumpster. I have contaminated her precious things with the stink of my mediocrity. Some blond Viking type boyfriend or beneficial friend comes in just as she is leaving. She squeals with delight and hugs him, careful to press herself tightly against his white t-shirted torso. They start talking animatedly, probably about some weekend party in the Hamptons, or Hollywood, or some private Caribbean island.

 
I watch this all unfold, studying their mouths, their movements as they engage in their little public display. They were just as animated later on that night when I found them both in her bed. The birth of scarlet color from the boy-toy would soon betray my intentions. I could imagine what she must have been thinking behind those wild eyes as I started after her. She probably thought it too passé to see her life ended by a serial killer. At the very least, it should have been a more famous one.

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