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The bread line

She always has some excuse.

“My children are at home alone,” she says as she steps nimbly (or not-so-nimbly) in front of me.
“I'm late for an appointment.”
“I have to get back to work.”

But as much as she annoys me, she's the better of the two.

The other one doesn't make excuses at all. She just elbows her way in, shoves her arm through the window, and barks her order at the sweaty man plucking the hot loaves from the aging machine.

Her strange skills are many, this one. Her long arm snakes its way through the tightest spots. Her body slips through crowds with an odd swiftness that is unrelated to the size of the crowd—or her body. Her tongue drips honey on request; she smilingly helps old ladies with their bread and then steps into the line right after.

Nothing bothers me more than these women. The line could be a mile long and I wouldn't mind; it's the feeling that someone is taking my turn—my right—that drives me mad.

So here I am, my insides on fire with indignation, while the line-jumper is probably thinking: “Lines? Psh. Those are for fools.”

(November 2018)

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