She approaches the checkout like a granny on speed
She sees me with my French stick and purse in my hand
She grits her teeth and goes for it, like a medal was up for grabs
She negotiates her trolley which is laden to the brim
She pushes past three other people, oblivious of them perhaps?
She dives in front of me with the neatness of a pro
She saw me with my French stick, and looked me up and down
She saw she had the opportunity to let me go first and pay
She sees that I see that she’s seen, but couldn’t give a *hit
She feigns a superior smile at me, a bit of a sneer if you ask me
She’s got nothing to smile about, she’s just being petty and mean
She could’ve let me pay first, and would’ve earned a virtuous glow
She must’ve had some point to make, but what, goodness knows
She scored a hollow victory, as she packed her eight bags
She heard me when I muttered, not quite under my breath
She saw my look of perplexity, yet still she carried on
She saw me with my French stick, whilst she was waiting for her cab
She saw how quickly I paid for it, but still she said nought
She sees that I see that she’s seen, but she pretends that she hasn’t.
Copyright © 2012 Vicky Newham. All Rights Reserved.
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