There’s a long line behind me.
The cashier’s fingers dance across her touchscreen. One man is picking up lunch for the office, so it’s slow going.
Eventually, it’s my turn.
“How you doin’?” the cashier asks. Her Brooklyn accent isn’t real, so I respond with a SoCal affectation.
“I’m like totally awesome today.”
“Yeah, I could tell you were cool because you waited so patiently.”
“Hey, somebody has to get lunch for the office.”
“Especially that office,” she says. “They do my favorite show, it’s about vampires. Do you like vampires?”
“No,” I say. “They kind of freak me out.”
“That’s because you’re a pussy,” she says.
“Ouch,” I say.
I’m not really offended, just surprised our innocuous banter escalated to the point of challenging my masculinity so quickly.
“Hey, I call it like I see it,” she says. “Tuna on wheat with a side salad, afraid of vampires. Pussy.”
“Would it help if I ordered a cupcake for dessert?”
“No, it would not.”