© 2023 Bostonleatherman
…mostly because you’re in tight leather and boots, already sweating, and it’s 90-something degrees outside. Fuck.
“Here, lemme help you with those.”
A man younger than you, heavier than you, and taller than you starts to take the cradled bottles out of your arms and carry them to the available register. But not before uttering “Fuck off, you little shits” just loud enough for the little shits to hear. They step around us, drop their bottles of soda and bag of chips at “your” register and push through the doors and go out onto the street. You’re afraid to look at him.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He scans the five bottles of water, pays for them, double bags them, picks up the bag, and nods toward the door with his head. You follow him out the door. You scan the street up and down for the two boys, still shaken from the experience you’ve just had.
