sockmonkey

The clerk swings around the rack of gum, candy and gossip magazines and addresses me, "Sir, I can help you over here."
I politely turn to the woman in front of me and say, "Oh please, you go ahead. I'm in no hurry."
She smiles, thanks me, and heads to the next line. There's no way I'm leaving register 4. Not while she's working. My own personal check-out goddess.

She stands before me, this apron-clad vision of perfection, her raven locks dancing around her shoulders and twisting about her pinned on plastic nametag. The real world melts away and we're standing alone on a island of fresh produce. The bright florescent sun shines upon her pail white skin. Muzak renditions of top 40 hits swirl through the air-conditioned sky as she beckons me ever closer.

"Paper or plastic?" Her voice jolts me back to reality as I stare blankly at her, a deer in the headlights. "Paper or plastic?" She repeats, this time with a hint of contempt in her tone. I stammer and force a swallow before finally blurting out, "Umm...whatever you like."

Smooth. Real smooth.