The express line is anything but.
The woman in front has a broken egg in her carton, so the cashier sends someone for a replacement.
Behind her, three dudes in Bermuda shorts bicker over who should pay for the three bottles of flavored seltzer and jar of honey. The guy in the salmon shorts loses. The other two dudes turn to the book display; they kill time debating how many “killing” books Bill O’Reilly has written. Neither dude is inclined to Google the answer.
The man behind them unloads an overflowing basket onto the conveyor belt.
“Oh come on!” he says. You’re kidding me! Unbelievable.”
He packs up his basket, but it takes a while to gather all the items.
“Are you giving up?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m reloading. My wife just texted me more stuff to buy. She’s driving me crazy… You know women.”
He leaves in a huff, so I don’t get the chance to tell him what I know about women, namely that too many of them end up with jerks who ignore signs like “15 items or less.”