I hate the man at the grocery store - The one I stood behind in lane 13. He's buying four boxes of condoms, ribbed for her pleasure, a bottle of aerosol whipped cream, a dog collar and a leash, and he's hitting on the cashier. "Are you married, sweetie?" he asks even though her name tag says NATASHIA, 15 and in this town, 15 year old girls don't get married - Especially not to nasty, toothless old men buying four boxes of condoms. He turns to me and winks, licks his cracked, ancient lips suggestively, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end because I get the sudden feeling that those condoms are for just about any little girl who's willing. One look at his trousers tells me so. "What time do you get off work?" he asks Natashia, who glances at him briefly with a flash of terror in her eyes. "I could pick you up, take you out..." he says. She is scared of him, I can tell. She picks some lint off of her shirt, and turns to him stiffly and says, "A dollar thirty-six is your change, sir. Have a nice night." He pauses for a moment, takes his change, and coughs. He realizes he has lost this time, but he walks out with an old, nasty man's confidence, sure that his next girl will be easier to catch. Natashia reaches over to flash her light - I guess that she will tell the manager, if he pays her any attention. Right now, he is busy with his tabloid and cheese puffs. She turns to me, bright as the sun, and says, "Paper or plastic?" with a smile.Birth sign: Aries
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