By Rosie Gonce
“Are you serious? I thought that it was on sale!” The old woman yelled, her wrinkled tattoos covered in dry skin. She wore a gray shirt that was as faded as the tattoos that covered her arms. The shirt said “Misfits” on it, with a sloppily painted skull.
“Well, it ain’t! So either buy it or get outta here!” The young man said, his dark stubble sprouting sporadically all over his face, along with his acne.
The old woman shook her head, rummaged through her backpack for a crumpled up thousand dollar bill. She smoothed it out, hiding her smile as she noticed the devil horns she had drawn on President Trump, with a Sharpie marker. She picked up the bill and then slammed it down on the counter with unexpected vigor and glared at the young man. He rolled his eyes.
“How many bags do you want?” He asked as he put the money in the register, and then put the bottle in a plastic bag. “Double? Triple? What?”
“None!” the old woman yelled. “There shouldn’t even be any bags! In my day there was a law banning bags! Do you know what they’ve done to our environment—”