She shrugs. “I think Esme would want me to make sure you’re alright,” she says.
I freeze. My eyes narrow. Icy, flinty, furious.
“f**k off, you crazy b***h,” I rasp.
Then I push past her so hard that she stumbles into the long shelves and upends several racks of beans.
Leaving the chaos in my wake, I head straight for the checkout counter and push my cart through.
“Hurry the f**k up,” I tell the pimple-faced youth who looks about ready to piss himself. I’m not sure how good his English is, but some messages are universal. He gets the gist of it.
He grabs the items from my cart, trying to be as fast as he can, but he’s so nervous he keeps stumbling, making silly mistakes and sweating through his green grocery store shirt.
“You have five seconds to finish up or else I’m gonna walk out
